Phoenix Ablaze
by mosylu
Summary: After fourteen years in hiding, Emily Prentiss thought she and her daughter were safe. But Doyle has found them, and now there's nowhere to run but home. Sequel to The Phoenix's Child. Epilogue posted, and COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

Author's Note: When I finished The Phoenix's Child, there were a lot of requests to tell the story of how Emily and Elizabeth would finally come out of hiding. Well, here you are! I know Paget is coming back next season (hurrah!) but this follows the path of the Phoenix's Child, which picked up after "Coda" and departed from the events of "Valhalla" and "Lauren." That being said, I've taken the same backstory revealed in those episodes and used it in this story because frankly, there's no improving on that magnificence.

**Prologue**

Nora Brewster leaned forward and pushed her fingers through her blond hair, squinting at the dark roots. Yep. Grey.

There wasn't a lot, but when your hair was as dark as Nora's, there didn't have to be.

She let out a sigh and straightened up, running her hand over her hair. After six years of home bleaches, it felt like straw. With that grey, maybe she could go back to her natural color.

She pulled out a strand and squinted again, considering. If she chopped off all the blond right now, she'd look like a Marine. But hair grew, and _God_, did she need a better job. The short hair would look more professional than this bleached horror, which had never done her any favors besides hiding her identity from the international criminal who wanted her dead.

A gigantic favor. Still, the blond could probably go.

She flicked off the bathroom light and stepped out into the hall. Her bedroom door was wide open. She stopped.

She'd left it half-open.

Every muscle went tense. She spun on her heel and bolted into her daughter's room. The bed was empty.

Even as her belly turned to ice, Nora registered that the blankets on the bed were pushed back, as if its small inhabitant had gotten out under her own power. She took a quick breath and turned again. As she moved heel-toe and silent through the hallway, she darted her eyes sideways to check the windows. The security bars were still up, the screens still whole. Nobody had gotten in that way.

But she didn't lower her hands from fighting position. There were any number of ways somebody could have gotten in. Through the thin walls, she could hear the couple in the next apartment start a fight. Was somebody using that to cover the sounds of his own movements?

Her gun - unregistered, the serial numbers filed off, but still all hers - was locked in the safe under her bed, ten feet and a million miles away.

The room looked empty, but in the middle of her bed, the blankets swelled up over a little-girl-sized lump. She approached it, hardly able to breathe. It would be something he'd do . . . leave a tiny, broken body in Nora's bed . . .

She ripped the covers back.

Big, dark eyes blinked up at her.

She caught her breath and managed to smile. "Aha. Just as I suspected. A stowaway."

"Hi, Mama."

"Hi, baby." She forced her shoulders to relax. "Whatcha doin'?"

Elizabeth sat up, inky hair falling down around her shoulders. "I wanted to talk to you," she said seriously.

"Scoot up to the top of the bed, honey," Nora instructed. She cast a dark look at the wall as the fight got louder.

Ignoring the noise next door, Elizabeth scooted, planting her butt on her mother's pillow and settling her back against the headboard. Nora picked the sheets off the floor, sweeping them across her bed again. Elizabeth looked down as the cloth settled across her body and wiggled her toes so the sheet bounced.

"So," Nora said, repeating the process with the thin summer blanket. "Conversation? At ten o'clock at night?"

"It's only nine-fifty-two," Elizabeth corrected. At five, she was very precise about numbers.

"Right. Of course. Eight minutes makes all the difference." Still, she climbed into bed and snuggled her daughter close into her side. There was a particularly loud shriek from next door. She lifted her fist above her head and thumped once on the wall. The noise subsided. "All right, my baby koala. What's so important that you're staying up way past your bedtime, the night before your very, very first day of school?"

Elizabeth laid her head on her mother's breast and played with the hem of her sleep shirt. "Mama, I don't want to go."

Above her daughter's head, Nora's mouth fell open. A hundred different responses flashed through her head, ranging from, _Do you know how hard I had to fight to get you into first grade?_ to _And just where do you think you're going instead, young lady? _to _Get back to bed, it's too goddamn late for this shit._

She settled on, "Oh? Why's that?"

Shrug.

"Why's that, Elizabeth?"

"I just don't want to," she mumbled.

"Mmm." She rested her chin on her daughter's head. "Okay. What do you want to do instead?"

"Go back to Mrs. Rios' class."

"Well, I'm sure she'd be happy to have you come back for a visit. But you can't go back to Head Start, baby."

"Why not?"

"Do you remember the last few months there? You were pretty bored, weren't you?"

"It was okay."

Elizabeth had been leaps and bounds ahead of the other kids, reading independently while her classmates struggled with letters, and using the blocks and beads to explore mathematical concepts while they built towers. She'd started to get arrogant about it around Christmas. It had been that arrogance, and all the parent-teacher conferences with the patient but increasingly exasperated Mrs. Rios, that had changed Nora's mind about putting Elizabeth through school at a normal speed.

She explained now, "You already knew everything that Mrs. Rios was trying to teach. You need to learn new things."

Elizabeth sighed.

"You liked your new classroom when we visited last week. And you liked Ms. Andrews."

"But - "

"But?"

"Delia and Matt aren't going to be in my class."

"Well, no. They're going to be in kindergarten."

"Why can't I go to kindergarten?"

"Because the same thing will happen. You know everything kindergarten has to teach you already." A battery of tests had confirmed this for the doubtful school administrators. "You need to learn first-grade stuff."

"But I don't know any kids in first grade."

"You will."

"Why aren't Delia and Matt in first grade?"

"Because they don't know kindergarten stuff. They still need to learn it."

"So kindergarten is for stupid kids?"

Oh Jesus, this again. They must have talked about it seventeen times. "Elizabeth. What did I say about that word?"

She hadn't liked all those talks any more than her mom had. She ducked her head and made a noncommittal noise.

"Elizabeth?"

"We don't call other kids stupid just 'cause they don't know as much as me."

"Uh-huh." Nora tipped her daughter's chin up with one finger. "Kindergarten is _not_ for stupid kids. It's for kids who still have some things to learn, things you already know. It doesn't make them stupid, and I don't want to hear any of that in first grade, either."

Tiny voice: "Kay."

Nora snuggled her close. "Listen up, okay? I know you're not sure about first grade. You don't know any of the kids, you don't know the teacher, and you don't know what's going to happen there. But you're my brave girl, and you can do it. I bet you'll even like it."

Elizabeth burrowed her head into her mother's armpit "I'm not."

"You're not what?"

"Brave."

"Well, I think you are."

Burrow, burrow. "BuhImscare."

Nora lifted her arm. "Say that again?"

"But I'm scared," Elizabeth repeated. "I'm not brave, I'm scared."

"Sweetie, being brave doesn't mean you're not scared. It means you are and you do what you have to do anyway. The more scared you are, the braver you get to be. Does that make sense?"

Elizabeth frowned and shrugged.

Okay. Philosophy could wait. "You think about that. In the meantime, I promise that if your first day of school kills you dead, you won't have to go back."

That coaxed forth a giggle.

"Until then . . ." She scooped her daughter up in her arms. "Let's get you back to bed. It's late and you have a big day tomorrow."

Tiny arms snaked around Nora's neck. "Can we read, Mama?"

"What do you want to read?" Nora was pretty sure she knew the answer.

"_Go Away, Big Green Monster_."

"_Go Away, Big Green Monster_ it is." She carried Elizabeth across the hall to her little room and plopped her in the middle of her bed, then went to the crammed bookshelf. In a place of honor resided a battered black picture book with a Kilroy-style green monster head on the cover. The spine and corners had been taped over and over again. Nora had found it at Goodwill when her daughter was tiny. Even after she was reading on her own, Elizabeth insisted on reading this book together.

Nora settled herself against Elizabeth's pillow, and her daughter curled into her side. "_Go Away, Big Green Monster,_ by Ed Emberley," she read from the cover, and opened the book to the first page. "Big Green Monster has two big eyes . . ."

"Big _yellow_ eyes," Elizabeth corrected.

"Big yellow eyes. A long bluish-greenish nose . . ."

On they read, enumerating the features of Big Green Monster, then banishing each, one by one. Elizabeth read the second-to-last line aloud, as she always did. "Go away, Big Green Monster."

Nora finished it, as she had so many times before. "And don't come back until I say so." She set it on the bedside table, then hugged her daughter close. "Do you feel better?"

"Uh-huh."

"School is gonna be so good for you, _devochka_. You'll see." Nora climbed out of her daughter's bed, then pulled her covers up snugly around her, the way she liked best.

Elizabeth's dark eyes fixed on hers, wide and beseeching. "Can you stay, Mama?"

"Of course." Nora kissed her forehead. "But close your eyes." She sat on the floor, stroking her daughter's hair. Gradually, Elizabeth's breathing slowed and her body relaxed.

Someday, if Doyle ever did find them, Elizabeth would need more courage than first grade demanded. But the woman who had been Emily Prentiss sat next to the daughter that Spencer Reid didn't know he had, and prayed that day wouldn't be for a long, long time.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A/N: So, there was some confusion over the prologue. It took place when Elizabeth was five years old. The story "The Phoenix's Child," when Reid meets Elizabeth, takes place when she is eleven. The rest of this story takes place when Elizabeth is thirteen.

* * *

><p><em>I worry about her, too. It's too much for a kid, knowing that we might have to bolt at any time, or that something might happen to me and she'll have to get to you on her own with the worst kind of people chasing her. I know there are days when neither of us think about it at all, but then we'll see an unfamiliar car in the neighborhood, or there'll be a missed call from a blocked number. Then she'll get white and silent, and start biting her nails, although she's been nagging me to break the habit for years. <em>

_When it gets really bad, she doesn't sleep, and reads all night so she can think about astrophysics or Indo-European languages instead of being afraid. There have even been a few times when she insisted on crawling into bed with me. Those are the worst nights for both of us._

_But it's better this way. It's better she knows and can be ready. It could save her life one day._

* * *

><p>His partner squinted at him. "You want me to what?"<p>

Mallory suppressed a sigh. Sometimes he thought Cox took the whole good-cop, bad-cop thing a little too seriously. "Call her dad."

"The other guy said he was her dad."

"Yeah, and he took off, which is fishy as hell in my book."

"All she gave us was a name and a phone number, which might or might not be this dad of hers. And she swears her mom isn't available. How do we know she's not making the whole thing up?"

"The fact that she's sitting there quietly, waiting for us to call."

"Could be a prank. Some kind of a teenage hazing ritual."

"Pretty fucking elaborate. And anyway, do you have a better idea? Really, share."

They both looked at the tall, gangly teenager sitting next to Cox's desk. She'd given her name as Matilda Wormwood, which, what the fuck kind of parents named a kid _Matilda_ if they didn't want her to turn out a serial killer or something?

She seemed to be rebelling against that prim, old-fashioned name by dressing like a slutty hobo, in hole-ridden jeans, a tight pink shirt with a glittery purple heart on the front, and tattered black tennis shoes. As if that weren't enough, she'd slathered on black eyeliner half an inch deep around her eyes and dyed her hair an eye-searing shade of peacock blue. To complete the picture, a ring glinted dully in her lower lip.

Really, how stupid did you have to be to shoplift in front of two police officers dressed like _that?_

She watched them with no expression in her dark eyes. She didn't wiggle or fidget. The only indication that she was anything other than purely bored was the way she would occasionally pick at nails already chewed down to nubs.

"Some spoiled brat, wasting our time trying to get Special Agent Daddy's attention," Cox muttered.

"So what if she is? I say we just call and get it over with," Mallory said.

He was annoyed too. They'd been on their lunch break, for God's sake. Couldn't a uniform get a fucking sub sandwich without running into something?

But Cox was going to drag this out into next week. The shopkeeper hadn't wanted to press charges, so this was really about getting somebody take a truant teenager off their hands so they could get back to _real_ police work. Which brought them to the small matter of actually getting ahold of the man she claimed was her real father.

Cox was still bitching. "So we're supposed to just call this random number. Then, if this clown actually answers the phone instead of some giggling teenager, I'm supposed tell him we've got his daughter so he can come down here and throw his Special-Agent weight around and get Daddy's little princess off the hook?"

Mallory unhooked his phone from his belt. "Yes, jackass, that's exactly what I'm saying."

* * *

><p>The BAU was its usual self, unchanged in the days that J.J. had been out sick. Phones ringing, coffee burning, somebody discussing evisceration while eating an Egg McMuffin. She made a face and steered clear of that conversation, cutting through the row that housed her team. "Hey, Manning, Simons."<p>

Agent Manning looked up from her computer screen, and her round face lit with surprise. "Hey, J.J. How's the stomach?"

"Steadier, thanks."

"You know, Laila swears by toast and chamomile tea with honey."

J.J. winced. Her family had been living on dry toast for the past two days. "If I never see another piece of toast again, I can probably die a happy woman. But I think I have some chamomile tea in my office. I'll try that."

Simons leaned back in his chair. "Didn't think we'd see you today."

She shrugged. "Oh, well, I hadn't thrown up for eight hours and honestly, the kids were driving me nuts. So, I thought I'd risk coming in for the afternoon."

"Aren't they feeling too sick to fight?"

J.J. rolled her eyes. "My kids? Oh, no. If it ever got to that point, I'd call 911."

Manning laughed. "What are they doing?"

"Instead of fighting over the TV remote, they're fighting over the bathroom and who drank the last of the Sprite. Which in fact was Will, but they're not about to let that ruin a good screaming match. Oh, and Henry's taken to calling his sister Typhoid Mary. You can imagine how well Cliff takes that."

"Ouch," Simons said. "I'm sure that doesn't help when she's already feeling guilty over single-handedly laying the whole family low."

"She'd better feel guilty," J.J. said grimly. "How does a kid who's made straight A's in science since preschool not realize that you shouldn't cook chicken that's been sitting on the counter for eight hours?"

Manning considered that. "Immature pre-frontal cortex strikes again?"

"Since the alternative is that I gave birth to a complete dingbat, sure, let's chalk it up to brain development. Where is everybody?"

"Hotch is in a meeting, Garcia's working her magic on some video for this consult of mine, and Reid got a phone call about fifteen minutes ago and went tearing out of here like his hair was on fire."

"I hope everything's okay." J.J. glanced around and lowered her voice, and the other two agents instinctively leaned in. "Have you two noticed anything strange about him lately?"

They glanced at each other. Although they were the most recent members of the team, Manning had been with them three years, and Simons two. It wasn't the same as the fifteen-plus years together that the rest of the team could claim, but it was plenty for profilers.

"If recently means the past couple of days," Simons said, "well, yeah."

Manning muttered, "He was completely off his game in St. Louis yesterday. Kept losing his train of thought, checking his phone . . ."

J.J. let out her breath. "Hotch said the same thing. He called me last night when you guys got back to see if I knew of anything going on with him."

"And do you?" They all knew how close Reid was to J.J.

"I have no idea. When I called him this morning, he said he was fine." But his voice had been clipped, and he'd all but hung up on her.

Manning squinted. "Hey, you think it's got something to do with his work for the Organized Crime division?"

But J.J. shook her head. "I don't think so. He's been consulting with them for over a year and it's never affected his performance." That had been the deal he'd made with Hotch, and he'd stuck to it. When asked why he was adding more profiling onto his full plate, he'd shrugged and said something about different personality types and maybe getting a paper out of it.

J.J. tamped down the fear that always lived at the back of her mind. As far as she knew, he'd stayed clean for seventeen years, even through pain and loss that would have tipped anybody off the wagon. Although he kept that little corner of his life strictly off-limits, she was pretty sure he had sponsored four or five people through the program.

Maybe it was some problem with a sponsee, which would explain his fierce denial that there was anything wrong at all.

Because neither of the other two agents knew anything about that part of Reid's life, she said, "You know, maybe it's nothing. Just a temporary thing."

"Maybe his cat's sick," Manning said.

"Maybe he's seeing somebody," Simons offered.

Manning laughed out loud, and it broke the tension. "You think he has a girlfriend?"

Simons grinned at her. "It's not completely out of the realm of possibility. He's only forty-four, right?"

Manning said, "Yeah, but this is Reid. Monks think he should get out more."

"He's not that bad," J.J. said. "It's true, he hasn't dated in a couple of years, and I think the last time he was actually serious about someone was . . ." She trailed off, biting her lip.

"Was?"

"A long time ago," J.J. said. "And she died. So."

"Yikes," Manning said. "On that cheerful note, I'm going back to this consult. Hopefully I can get something to Atlanta by the end of the day."

J.J. frowned. "I don't remember giving you anything from Atlanta."

"You didn't. We triaged some intake for you this morning, so you can actually open your office door without getting buried."

"Remind me to have you sainted," J.J. said. "Anything look like an out-of-town case? Please say no."

"I didn't think so at first," Simons said. "But the more Manning gets into that one, the more I wonder."

"It's weird, and getting weirder," Manning confirmed.

"What is it?"

"A thirteen-year-old girl went missing, and so did her mom. But it was from two different places, and then a cop that was involved turned up dead . . . and there may be a connection with a nasty home-invasion murder . . ." She shrugged. "Basically, it's like a bunch of loose puzzle pieces. From five different puzzles."

"Well, that is our specialty. Do you want to move into the conference room? We can all have a look. See if we really should go out there."

"You sure?"

"No problem. Just let me drop my things in my office." J.J. pressed a hand to her stomach. "And maybe get that tea."

* * *

><p>The girl who'd given her name as Matilda Wormwood sat on the toilet, breath still coming in hiccups. It had been fully twenty minutes since she'd heard his voice and burst into tears. She'd barely been able to talk, only to tell him she was okay and that her mom -<p>

She folded over, pressing her forehead to her knees, her mouth open wide in a soundless howl.

There was a knock on the stall door. "Matilda? How you doin' in there?"

It was a female officer who'd taken her to the precinct's bathroom when she couldn't stop crying. She'd resisted all efforts to be hugged and comforted, fleeing into a stall even though there was no other exit and she could be trapped.

She wasn't safe here, she knew it. She'd had no indication yet that the cops were dirty, but all the same, she wouldn't be really safe until she got to Quantico. She shouldn't be falling apart like this, but she couldn't stop. She clutched her knees and sucked in breath through her clenched teeth until her heart stopped trying to burst out of her chest like the thing in _Alien_.

"Matilda?"

"I'm okay," she called in a wavering voice. "I just need a moment."

"Okay."

Her head hurt from crying and her face was sticky. The toilet-paper dispenser had a metal surface, still slightly reflective through the layers of scratched-on graffiti, and it showed her that the eye makeup had smeared and streaked all over her face.

She couldn't seem to care, but knew she should, so she took a piece of toilet paper from the dispenser and swiped at her face. It just moved the mess around. She gave up and just concentrated on breathing.

_Please, Dad. Please, get here fast._

* * *

><p>The first sensation Emily registered was a dull, pounding pain in her head. Those jackasses had hit her.<p>

The second was the cold of the dirt-packed floor. Give it another hour and her ass would be entirely numb. Not that she could get up; her arms had been wrenched behind her back and fastened firmly to a length of pipe. She gave a few experimental tugs and determined that it was duct tape that held her.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes.

Thin wintery light spilled in from a tiny window high above her head. By it, she could see the proportions of the room. Judging by the height of the window, it was a basement, and from the naked brick behind her back and the dusty, decrepit equipment scattered around, it was a warehouse. Almost exactly like where the warehouse where she'd held a gun to Declan Doyle's head and taken photographs.

Well, that wasn't such a surprise, was it? She'd always known what was driving him.

She tried to say a name, and it got caught in her dry throat. She coughed, worked up some spit, swallowed, and tried again, praying not to hear a reply. "Elizabeth?"

Nothing.

Louder: "Libs?"

Still nothing.

She relaxed, but only slightly.

She closed her eyes again and listened. Footsteps moved across the floor above. Then a door creaked open somewhere up off to the right, and she heard the _reek-reek_ of old wooden steps under weight. She opened her eyes again. Someone was coming downstairs.

A flashlight beam danced just outside the door, and then swung into the room and into her eyes. The sudden brightness sent a stab of pain through her head, and she flinched away before she could stop herself.

"Awake, Lauren?" a slightly accented voice inquired, as sweetly punctilious as a maitre d'. The beam twitched aside, and through the spots dancing in front of her eyes she could see the solid bulk of Ian Doyle, looming above her.

He was older, of course. His skin had a more papery look, and his hair had gone entirely white. But other than that, he still appeared as hale as the last time she had seen him, on a chilly D.C. night, when they'd sat across a cold wire table from each other exchanging threats.

He continued. "Or Emily? No, no, it's Nora now, isn't it. You've more identities than Madonna, you know."

"We both know it doesn't really matter what you call me," she said, listening hard for another voice, another set of footsteps. "You're still going to kill me." Maybe a whimpering cry or tremulous breathing.

Nothing.

She looked up at Doyle and smiled. "But not yet. You don't have her."

"Maybe I do," he said. "Maybe she's upstairs now. What's left of her."

"You don't," she said. "You've waited twenty years for this, you're going to do it right."

"And how's that?"

"You want me to see it. You want me to read the terror in her eyes. If you did have her, she'd be in here now, with a gun to her head. You don't have her."

He knelt down and took her face in one hand. Although his fingers compressed her jaw and the heel of his hand pushed into her windpipe, she met his eyes coolly. He leaned forward and kissed her, hard enough so that her lips ground against her teeth.

Just when she tasted copper, he let her go and smiled, with her blood on his mouth. "I will."


	3. Chapter 2

J.J. came into the conference room, juggling her filled hot-water kettle, a mug with a chamomile tea bag, and her tablet computer. She dropped the latter two items on the table and went to plug in the kettle. "From what you've given me so far, it sounds like a standard missing-persons. What's making it stand out for you? Why should we prioritize this case over all the others in my office?"

She put the challenge in her voice on purpose. She'd had younger agents help her with intake before, and they always had to learn the hard way that every case that made its way to her desk was weird and awful, and only a few of them could be addressed in person.

"It's the details, mostly." Manning was still trying to get her tablet's display linked up to the big screen. They'd recently upgraded the software, which of course meant it didn't work anymore. "There's about five places to start."

J.J. glanced at Simons, who could generally be counted on to distill things to their core. "Start with the girl."

Simons said, "Two days ago, a police officer pulled a thirteen-year-old child prodigy named Elizabeth Brewster out of her calculus seminar at Georgia State University. The reason given was that her mom had been in an accident and they needed to get to the hospital right away. Yesterday morning, one of Elizabeth's classmates got concerned when she didn't get any response to numerous phone calls and texts. She went to the Atlanta PD and raised holy hell wanting to talk to the officer who'd taken her out of class."

"That's where everything fell apart," Manning called out. She was now twisted around to peer under the bottom edge of the screen. "See, that officer, Allen Waites, hadn't actually been on duty the day before." She pressed something, and the screen went _Boop! _and turned purple. Manning made a low growling noise.

Simons took over as she jabbed more buttons. "Furthermore, there was no record of a traffic accident involving Elizabeth's mother. In fact, Nora Brewster left work citing a family emergency fifteen minutes _after_ Elizabeth walked out of the classroom with Officer Waites."

"Any record of a ransom call?"

"None."

Manning said, "If she did get that call, she's one cool customer, because shortly after leaving work, she called her daughter's high school with the same family-emergency line. Said she wasn't sure when Elizabeth would be back in class."

"I thought you said she attended Georgia State."

"Dual-enrollment student," Simons informed her. "She's a senior, set to graduate high school in a couple of months."

_If we find her_, J.J. thought. "So did Waites disappear too?"

"Oh, no," Manning said, taking a break from her pitched battle with technology. "He turned up all right, and so did his brains, all over his living room wall. CSI guys think he died Tuesday night, about five hours after he pulled Elizabeth out of class. No forced entry."

"Did Nora Brewster own a gun?"

"There's no record of gun ownership and no gun license on file for her," Manning said. "Of course, that doesn't mean she didn't know how to use one, and there's always unregistered."

"Which are hard to get if you don't know the right people," Simons said. "Nora Brewster is a low-level corporate drone, living in a quiet lower-middle-class neighborhood. She's never had so much as a parking ticket in the state of Georgia."

"It's something to dig at," J.J. said. "Was there any evidence that Elizabeth Brewster was in Waites' house?"

"None. No fingerprints either, and the bullet was delivered execution-style. Nothing about the crime scene says rage or revenge to me, which tends to rule out Nora Brewster."

"Don't put that possibility away completely," J.J. warned. "She did disappear rather than going to the cops. I'm assuming Atlanta PD already interviewed other family members?"

"There's no family to interview, which is what makes this 'family emergency' story so flimsy. According to friends, Nora's parents were dead and she never talked about Elizabeth's father."

"Were police able to track him down?"

"Birth certificate says father unknown."

"There's all sorts of reasons a woman would mark that," J.J. said, frowning. "If the father was a nasty character, it could be he found them."

"Maybe."

Hotch came in the open door. "J.J., how's the stomach?"

"Better," J.J. said. "Which is good, because we might need to go check this one out." She filled him in quickly.

"Unfortunate," Hotch said, "but what makes you think it's our kind of case?"

"Oh, we're far from done," Manning said. "We've only covered about half the puzzle pieces. After the cops realized that something was wonky, they put out an alert on both Elizabeth and Nora. Almost immediately, someone came forward to say that they'd seen Elizabeth Brewster, on her own, after she left class with Waites."

"When?"

"About one-twenty, Tuesday afternoon. Elizabeth and Waites left the classroom just after one o'clock. A customer-service clerk saw her at the Five Points MARTA station. It's the downtown transport hub for the city buses and subways. It's about half a mile off campus, easily doable on foot in that amount of time."

"But why was she there at all, if she thought her mom had been in an accident? And where did the cop go?"

"Add that to the stack of unanswered questions. And here's another. The reason the customer-service clerk remembered her was because she asked which train to take to get to the Amtrak station."

"The Amtrak station?" J.J. sat back.

"Yeah," Manning said. "With her mother supposedly in the hospital, her first thought was leaving the city."

"Did she get to the Amtrak station?"

"Not only did she not turn up there, she doesn't even appear on the security cams for that subway platform at Five Points. But the very last place Elizabeth Brewster was seen was headed toward the escalators that led to that precise platform."

Hotch was starting to look interested. "Quite aside from how she disappeared from Five Points, did she do it on her own or did somebody take her?"

Simons said. "We're hoping the video gives us more intel. Garcia's working on it."

Manning said, "Ah! Got it."

Hotch looked up at the screen, which had just flashed on to show a school picture of a sweet-faced girl with long, dark brown hair and dark eyes. J.J. tilted her head to study it. Something about the girl was familiar. Not the name, but the face. Something about her eyes, the serious expression . . .

But they hadn't been to Atlanta in years.

Manning said, "Oh, and when they talked to the clerk, they realized something else. At two-oh-five, somebody turned Elizabeth's backpack into lost and found. It contained two books from the campus library and her phone."

Hotch said, "Where's her tablet reader? You said she was taking a college course. E-textbooks are the standard now."

"The mom didn't make much. Could be they couldn't afford one."

Hotch shook his head. "When Jack was applying to colleges, most of them offered tablet readers with tuition."

"If you ask me," Simons said, "that's proof that somebody snatched her from Five Points. What kind of a teenager leaves her phone but takes her homework?"

"Maybe the kind who's taking college-level calculus at thirteen," Manning pointed out. "And what kind of a kidnapper wants his victim to be able to do her homework?"

Hotch's phone rang, and he glanced at the screen. "It's Reid," he said, and answered, stepping away into the hall.

Penelope Garcia passed him, coming into the room. "Jayje, honey, how's the tummy?"

"Doing okay," J.J. said, wishing everyone would stop mentioning it. She glanced over her shoulder at the kettle, but the water hadn't boiled yet. "How was your checkup?"

Garcia took the chair Simons pulled out for her. "The Jellybean and I are the two fittest fiddles ever to sing." She gave the swell of her belly a brief rub. "Hey, Manning, I got that video from Atlanta cleaned up, but I don't know that we'll get much out of it."

"That was fast."

"Well, honey, I am the best."

"Something I re-learn every day," Manning said. "Thanks. We'll look at it in a moment. But first, is there a way to track a tablet reader's signal?"

"Sure, if it hooks up to a cellular data network, and most of 'em do. But the uber-cheapies just have a wi-fi reciever. Those are tough to track if you don't know what the person might have been accessing, and plain old impossible if they turned off the receiver."

Manning nodded. "I think she left Five Points under her own steam. She left the phone so it couldn't be tracked, but she knew it was safe to take her reader."

"How does a kid even think of that?"

"Internet," Garcia said. "TV. Every spy movie ever made for the past thirty years."

J.J frowned. "Did they get anything off Elizabeth's phone?"

"An outgoing call to her mother at one-seventeen," Simons told her, "and a few minutes later another outgoing call to a retired social worker named Nancy Barville."

"Is that the home-invasion murder?"

"Yeah. Police estimate that Barville was beaten to death around ten in the morning. Elizabeth called her home phone at one-nineteen and actually talked to a patrolman who was at the crime scene."

"What did she say?"

"Ready for this one? Something about Barville's Girl Scout cookie order."

J.J. blinked, sure she'd misheard. "Girl Scout cookies."

Simons said, "Elizabeth Brewster wasn't even a Girl Scout. Obviously, she didn't want to say the real reason for her call."

"Obviously," Manning siad. "But why didn't she just hang up when someone else answered the phone? And if she knew she was talking to the police, why didn't she tell them anything?"

"A cop did try to pull her out of class," J.J. said. "Maybe she had good reason not to trust them. What else was on her phone?"

"No more outgoing," Simons said. "As for incoming, there was a blocked-number hang-up. Then a stack of messages from Ophelia Riley, the same classmate who went to the cops, and another couple from a girl named Annie Dale, apparently her best friend from the tone of the messages."

"Nothing from the mother?"

"Nothing. But we do have the mother's phone, and this is how. Last night, a 24-hour supermarket in an Atlanta suburb reported an abandoned car in their parking lot. It turned out to be Nora Brewster's, and it had her purse and phone in it. Employees think maybe it had been there a couple of days."

Garcia's eyes sparked. "Any security footage?"

"It was parked in a blank spot between cams and there's no record that Brewster was ever in the store. There were no signs of a struggle, but that doesn't mean she wasn't snatched from the lot."

"Or she chose to ditch the car," Manning pointed out. "And her purse and phone."

"Maybe. What was on the mother's phone?"

"Interestingly enough, a number of calls to that same Nancy Barville on Tuesday morning." Simons glanced down at his notes. "Says here they were at eleven o'clock, eleven-fifty, twelve-twenty-four, twelve-forty-one, twelve-fifty-two, one o'clock, and one-oh-five."

"The times are progressively closer together," J.J. noted. "Brewster was getting concerned."

"Probably, because there was also a 911 call at one-oh-six. Barville had already been discovered at that point. Then Elizabeth's message at one-seventeen, and an outgoing call to Elizabeth's high school at one-twenty-one."

"That was it? No more calls after that? No texts?"

"Not a thing."

"She didn't call her daughter back," J.J. said.

"No," Simons said.

"That would have been my first priority."

Manning said, "And Elizabeth Brewster, thinking that her mom had been in an accident, ditched the cop and scrambled to leave town instead of heading for the hospital. She was afraid of something. They were afraid of something."

"If you're right about the phones, the purse, and the car," Simons said, "they were shedding their identities and ways they could be tracked. J.J., you'd've called your kids, right? If something happened?"

"Called, texted, emailed, gotten on top of a building and screamed if necessary."

"Nora didn't, and neither did Elizabeth. There was almost no communication between them that day. One phone message. Either there was some compelling reason not to call, or they didn't need to call each other."

"They were waiting for something to happen." Manning's eyes narrowed. "Maybe it had to do with the cop, maybe it had to do with Barville. But whatever it was, it happened and they didn't waste any time. This was planned already."

J.J. heard the click of the hot-water dispenser, signaling that the water was boiling. She got up, taking her mug with her. "Tell me more about the mother."

"Okay," Manning said. "So, Nora Brewster, fifty-four years old. Single mom, low-level corporate drone, nothing fishy about her finances or her acquaintances. On the surface, the woman is frankly boring. This is her."

It was Garcia's gasp that made J.J. turn away from her tea, and then the face on the screen stripped every thought from her brain.

It was an awful picture, of course, in keeping with sacred DMV tradition. The hair had been cropped short and was starting to go grey. There were new lines around her mouth and eyes. But the eyes themselves were the same, dark and focused. The brows were still raised as if in faint amusement. The mouth still quirked up at one corner, as if to say, _I know something you don't know._

Fourteen years and J.J. still would have known her anywhere.

Hotch came back in, looking at his phone. "We need to turn this Atlanta case over to another team, guys," he said. "Reid says - "

_"Hotch_," Garcia said in a strangled whisper.

He looked up and went still.

"Guys?" Manning said.

J.J. managed to say, "That's Nora Brewster?"

"According to the Georgia DMV," Manning said, looking back and forth between the older members of the team with a line between her brows. "But what do they know?"

"Who is she?" Simons asked. "An old unsub who got away?"

"No!" Garcia cried.

Hotch reached out behind him and shut the door. "Her name is Emily Prentiss. She was . . ."

Garcia said simply, "She was ours."


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: The first scene of this chapter, with Reid, takes place at the same time as, and slightly after, the last chapter. The last scene, with the rest of the team, picks up right where the last chapter left off.

Because this is my Phoenix 'verse, Emily's "death" played out a little differently than in the show.

* * *

><p>The Volvo screeched to a halt, angled across three parking spaces. Reid left the keys in the ignition and the door hanging open as he rushed into the police station.<p>

At the bang of the front doors, the desk sergeant looked up. "Can I - "

Reid cut him off. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid. _Where is my daughter?"_

"Dad?"

He turned, and for just a fraction of an instant thought, _Who is that girl?_

That tall teenager with the blue hair and the smeared makeup, standing next to the station bathrooms, didn't look like the neat, serious girl in the pictures that Emily sent regularly. It couldn't be the same girl who wrote emails four or five times a week, bubbling over about math and friends and tae kwon do. The girl he'd only seen in person once, for three hours, eighteen months ago. His daughter.

Her lip, with a ring in it, trembled.

"Elizabeth," he said, and she rushed into his arms.

He held her tight, both of them shaking. "Shh," he breathed as she sobbed uncontrollably against his shoulder. "It's okay. Everything's okay now, sweetheart. Shhhh. I'm here. You're safe." He repeated it over and over again, to reassure himself as much as her. "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe."

For the past eighteen months, he had gotten at least one daily email from either Elizabeth or Emily, and often from both. They'd been his secret joy, this connection to the two people at the center of his heart. Then, for two days running, his inbox had been empty, and he had known that something was happening, but he didn't know what.

In that hotel room, back when they were first settling how to keep in touch without compromising their cover, Emily had told him, _If Doyle surfaces again, we will disappear._

He'd prayed that they had disappeared, because the alternative was too terrible to think about.

When his daughter's sobs had died down to occasional hiccuping breaths, he pulled back to look into her face. The makeup was smeared worse than ever, streaks of black and zombie grey. But under that, she looked whole. "Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?"

"Y-yes. I mean, no. I'm okay."

He swallowed. "Is your mother dead?" Because that had been another part of the agreement, that Elizabeth would come to him immediately if something happened to her mother.

Her face crumpled, but she held the tears back. "I don't know."

He let out his breath and hugged her close again. "Okay. Then we'll find her."

"Dr. Reid."

He looked up. It was the female officer who'd come out of the bathroom with Elizabeth. He hadn't registered her presence before, too focused on his daughter. But now he recognized her. "Detective O'Brien."

"I didn't believe it when I heard Mallory on the phone with you. But she really is your daughter?"

He smoothed his hand over Elizabeth's shocking hair, registering the coarse texture. A wig. "Yes," he said, and felt his heart leap at the chance to say this for the first time, even to someone he knew as slightly as Marissa O'Brien. "She's my daughter."

"You've never mentioned her."

"No."

She waited for an explanation, but he didn't offer one. Her gaze dropped to Elizabeth, who'd twisted around to look at her. "Matilda? That's really your name?"

"No," his daughter said.

O'Brien nodded, unsurprised. "Why do I have the feeling that this explains a whole lot about you, Dr. Reid?"

"It's a long story," he said, hyper-aware of the desk sergeant watching them both. "Right now I need to get her back to Quantico."

O'Brien glanced at the desk sergeant, then the two patrolmen in the bullpen, all three watching with varying degrees of interest and suspicion. "You want me to, ah, take care of this?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"No problem. It's really just Cox being an asshole, anyway."

"Thank you."

"Anytime," she said, and headed into the bullpen.

Reid turned back to his daughter. "Do you have a bag? A coat?"

She shook her head to both questions. "I had to leave all my things." Her lip trembled again. "Dad, I lost my tablet."

"It's okay," he said.

"But you got it for me."

And it had been complex beyond all reason, this simple act of buying his daughter a tablet reader for school. But he said, "Sweetheart, it's just a thing. You're more important." He took her hand. "We need to go."

He paused on the threshold, checking the outside, then nodded at the still-open driver's side door of his Volvo. "Just climb in and slide over."

She obeyed, scooting over until her hip bumped the far door. "Sorry I fell apart, Dad," she said, picking at her tattered nails. "When I saw you."

He pulled the door shut behind him, then reached over and gently pulled her hands apart. They had to get going, but first, she had to hear this. "Don't," he said. "Don't be sorry. Elizabeth. I am so proud of you."

"You don't know what happened," she whispered.

He shook his head. "I know you got here, to me, when you were alone and in danger. That's a tremendous accomplishment. And you're safe now. Do you understand that?"

She nodded slowly.

"It's okay to still feel scared. You've been scared for a long time. But it's just leftovers. You're safe."

She nodded again.

He didn't know if she believed him or not. But it wasn't something that could be forced. He started up the car and pulled out, checking his rearview mirror. Then saw her lean toward the vents when the air came blasting out of them. "Are you cold?" The t-shirt she was wearing was awfully thin.

"A little," she said, and at the stoplight, he shrugged out of his ratty sport coat. She draped it over her front like a blanket, burrowing down.

"What was the last thing you ate?" He felt very fatherly, asking the question. He liked the feeling.

"Granola bar, earlier."

"Check my bag," he said. "It's down by your feet. You can have whatever's in there." He waited until she'd pulled his messenger bag onto her lap and started going through it. "Sweetheart," he said. "When did you last see your mom?"

Her hands went still. "An hour and fifty-two minutes ago," she said.

He looked at her sharply. "You were here in DC?"

"Union Station," she said. "On Platform Five. We were so close. Just an hour away on the train, Mom said." She stared through the windshield as they merged onto I-395.

"Then the chances that she's alive are even better," he said firmly. "We're going to Quantico. The rest of my team is there. We'll find your mom." He pulled his phone out, dialing one-handed.

It rang a couple of times, and then Hotch picked up. "Reid, where are you?"

In the background, he heard Garcia's voice chirp, "Jayje, honey, how's the tummy?" and thought _J.J. came in?_

"In D.C," he told Hotch. "Just crossing back into Virginia, actually. Something's come up connected to my work with Organized Crime."

Elizabeth looked up at him. He shook his head slightly. He didn't want to explain this whole thing over the phone.

"I want the team on it," he added.

"We're looking at another case, out of - "

"Hotch, it's Emily."

Someone who hadn't known Hotch for a lifetime might not have registered the slight intake of breath.

"Then we're on it," his boss said.

"Thank you. Someone from Organized Crime will come upstairs to fill you in on the background. I'll give you the rest of it when I get there. I estimate forty-five minutes."

"Reid? Is she alive?"

"I believe so."

"I'll see you soon." Hotch hung up.

Reid checked his mirror again, then started to dial another number. Elizabeth's voice stopped him. "Dad?"

He glanced over at her. She'd found an apple and a pack of M&Ms, but they sat on her lap.

"Do you really think Mom is alive?"

"I really do," he said.

"How do you know?"

"We know because we've seen what he's done in the past," he explained. "His behavior has shown us that he wants to make his victims suffer, and he uses their children for that. He needs to, actually. He's called a family annihilator, and that's just what it sounds like. But so as long as you're safe and out of his reach, your mother is most likely alive." Belatedly, he thought this was probably not what normal fathers and daughters discussed. But Elizabeth needed reasons, logic. Like him, she felt safer with knowledge than with mindless reassurances. "Does that make sense?"

She nodded a little. "Yeah."

She didn't say anything more, and he finished dialing. "It's me," he said to the person on the other end. "Doyle has Emily Prentiss. Here. In D.C. Yes. My team is on it, but they need the background from you. What? Um." He frowned at the road, then checked his rearview mirror. "Yes, I think so. Right. See you there." He hung up and looked back at his daughter. She was staring out the window, the apple and the candy still whole.

"Elizabeth? There's a bottle of water and some tissues in my bag too, if you want to clean your face."

She blinked once or twice and dove into the bag again. After a few minutes, her face was cleaner, but she still looked blank-eyed and shell-shocked.

"Sweetheart," he said. "I told you. You're safe."

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

She turned to look at him, and took a deep breath like a diver preparing to go under. "Dad, it's my fault that Mom got taken."

"How?"

"She let them get her so I could get away."

"Is that what's bothering you?" he said gently.

"I should've helped."

It sent cold chills up his spine. He looked at the road, trying to balance his emotions. "If you had tried to help," he said, "you probably would have been taken too. Your mom is smart. She knows what Doyle is. She knows that was the best chance for both of you to stay alive, if you got away. It's not your fault, Elizabeth. It was her choice, and I know she would do it again."

Elizabeth sniffed. "What if he gets tired of trying to get me and just kills Mom?"

His stomach clenched. "That's not likely, sweetheart."

"But what if?"

"That's why I'm getting my team on it. We're the best."

"Am I going to meet them?"

"Absolutely. They're going to want to hear everything that happened to you. And then we are getting your mom back."

"Dad?" Elizabeth asked, finally tearing open the pack of M&Ms. "Is somebody following us? You've looked in your rearview mirror six times in the past three minutes."

"No," he said.

"Are you sure?" She looked into her own side mirror, as if to double-check.

"Nobody's following us." And that wasn't right, he thought, his frown deepening. That didn't fit. Why weren't they being followed?

He pushed the gas pedal harder and glanced down at his phone as it rang again. "Hotch?"

"Reid. Where is Elizabeth Brewster?"

* * *

><p><em>In some ways, I don't think any of us has ever gotten over losing you. J.J. especially, because she wasn't here at the BAU when you disappeared. She had barely heard that you were still alive before Sean MacAllister came to warn us not to pursue you, to pretend you were dead, because looking for you might put Doyle on your trail as well. Not that we knew it was Doyle that was after you. Not that we knew anything but that you were gone.<em>

_When Rossi died, it was sudden and heartbreaking, but at least it was definite. We knew it was a stroke that took him from us. We were able to mourn and then let the wound heal up and scar over. That's the way it's supposed to be. _

_That's the way it wasn't, with you. We never knew what took you from us._

_We rarely talk about you. We rarely ever say your name. Maybe because it pokes at that raw wound that never quite healed or scarred over._

_But I know that the others still wonder. And I want to tell them: she's alive. She's afraid and in hiding, but she's alive. The only reason I don't is because I know that wouldn't be enough. Not for them._

* * *

><p>"Emily Prentiss," Manning said. "Wait. I know that name. She died, didn't she? Not on the job, in an accident or something."<p>

"A fire, in fact," Hotch said. "That was the official story."

Simon's eyes narrowed. "What's the unofficial story?"

"The fire was real," J.J. said. "The badly burned body was a fake. The real Prentiss disappeared."

She could still remember the last time she'd seen her friend. Coffee on a Saturday morning, that had been interrupted by a call from the BAU. J.J. had watched her rush off and thought that Emily was distracted, and that she should call her after the case to find out what was wrong. But she'd gotten caught up, and one early morning a week later, Garcia had called, sobbing, to tell her that Emily had died in a freak fire at a motel.

Which had, of course, been a ruse that allowed their friend to vanish.

"Why would she fake her own death?" Manning asked. "Was someone after her?"

Garcia took a shaky breath. "We never knew."

They had never known why she left, or who she was running from. They'd never known if she had escaped, or if she was one more anonymous body in a shallow grave that might cross their desk one day. Or worse, might never been found.

They'd simply never known.

Hotch said, "We didn't even realize that she had faked it until four days later, and we were just starting our own quiet investigation when someone from Interpol warned us off, if we cared about her. We did." He swallowed. "Do. Nobody outside the team ever knew we were even suspicious."

"Who was on the team then?"

"Myself and Garcia, and Reid. J.J. was working elsewhere for a short time, but she knew, too. There were three others, Derek Morgan, Dave Rossi, and Ashley Seaver. You know Morgan, of course, from working with his team out of Dallas. Manning, I think you met Rossi once or twice - "

She nodded.

"Seaver's been with a different department since shortly after it happened. We agreed it wouldn't go beyond the six of us, and as far as we know, it hasn't."

Manning looked up at Emily, "Looks like whoever she was running from caught up with her."

Hotch frowned. "Did Reid see this file?"

"No, but - " Manning frowned, too. "He did help us go through the intake earlier, and he asked a couple of times if we'd gotten anything from Atlanta." She gestured at the screen. "This came in just after he left. That's why I pulled it out of the stack. Why do you ask?"

"On the phone, he said he'd stumbled over something to do with Emily, and he wanted to bring us in on it." Hotch looked up at Emily on the screen. "But if he knew where she was all this time, why wouldn't he have told us?"

J.J. looked up at the screen, too, trying to fathom why Reid would have kept something of this magnitude from them. Abruptly, her body went cold, as things fell into place. Only one puzzle, not five, but many far-flung pieces.

"I don't know," she said through numb lips. "But if he knew Emily was in Atlanta, he was keeping something else from us."

She leaned over and swiped at Manning's tablet, changing screens so that Elizabeth Brewster gazed solemnly out at them again. "The daughter? Emily's daughter? She's thirteen years old. She's a high-school senior. And she's taking a _college-level calculus course_."

Garcia clapped one hand over her mouth. "Oh, my God."

Hotch took a shallow breath, absorbing the shock of J.J.'s implication. Then he dialed and set his phone down in the middle of the table. Ringing echoed from the speakers, and then Reid's voice. "Hotch?"

"Reid," Hotch said. "Where is Elizabeth Brewster?"

For several seconds, there was only a faint crackle of speaker-static in the room.

Finally, Reid said. "She's with me. She's safe."

J.J. closed her eyes. It was there in his voice, confirmation of her barely-born suspicion. Tenderness and weariness and relief, like Will's voice after Cliff had gotten hit by a car last year on her bike, but come through with only a broken leg. The voice of a father whose child was alive, when he'd feared otherwise.

Elizabeth was Reid's daughter.

A daughter he'd never bothered to mention to any of them.

"And where's Emily?"

"Doyle has her."

"Who?"


	5. Chapter 4

A/N: A lot of this chapter is taken straight from "Lauren," at least information-wise. I hope that I've added interest via the delivery to make it a little bit different.

* * *

><p><em>Elizabeth knows I'm not telling her everything. I can tell by the way she mentions it, and waits for more. I can't give her more. No, that's not right. I could. I won't. Not now. I wonder if she can understand that I'm not proud of everything I did for the CIA, with Doyle. They were done for the right reason, but you know what they say about means and ends. It's hard to be proud of something like that. I'm not brave enough yet to admit what I've done. <em>

_It's why I handled it all by myself back when Doyle first escaped, and I left. I know that going to the team would have been the smartest thing. I knew that even then. I couldn't bear to tell you the things that I'd done. You would have been there for me anyway, I know that. _

_Maybe that made it worse._

* * *

><p>"Emily disappeared in the first place because of an Irish terrorist and weapons dealer named Ian Doyle," Reid explained over the phone. "He's a highly meticulous family annihilator with a personal vendetta against her. My contacts from Organized Crime can give you a fuller background than I can right now."<p>

And he might not want to get into it in front of Elizabeth, J.J. surmised. His daughter. Emily's daughter.

_God._

All this time, keeping Emily's non-death a secret even from Will. Telling herself that it had to be done, for Emily. All this time, there had been another secret, buried underneath.

There had to be a good reason for him keeping this from them, J.J. told herself. She didn't even know how long he'd known. He had been genuinely devastated in the days when they thought Emily was dead, and not very much better when they were trying to work out why Emily would have faked her death. Either J.J. or Morgan had called him every night for six months after Emily's disappearance, and for close to a year, he'd been to multiple NA meetings a week.

Sometime between then and now, he'd found this out, and kept it to himself.

"How far out are you?" Hotch asked.

"I estimate twenty-seven minutes. Start without me. I have the background already and we don't have time to waste."

"We'll see you then," Hotch said, and disconnected.

J.J. realized that she was still standing, staring at the phone. She sat carefully, feeling as if she might shatter.

"Oh, Jayje," Garcia whispered, squeezing her hand.

J.J. couldn't muster up the energy to squeeze back.

There was a knock at the conference room door then, and Hotch opened it to reveal two agents. "Hotchner," the older one said, shaking his hand.

"Conyers," Hotch returned. "Thanks for coming up here on such short notice."

"No problem whatsoever," Conyers said. "Do you know Agent Chevalier?" He nodded at his companion, a sandy-haired young man.

"We've met, yes," Hotch said. "Good to see you again."

"And you, sir," Chevalier told him, nodding to everyone else at the table. He'd visited the BAU a few times to meet with Reid. J.J. had thought it was awfully kind of her friend to take new agent under his wing like that, because if anybody knew what it was like to be the youngest person in a department, it was him.

Had Chevalier known all this time?

Hotch introduced the rest of the team to Conyers and then they got down to business. "Reid tells us that Doyle is here in D.C., and that he has Emily Prentiss," Conyers said. "Shock for you there, isn't it?"

Hotch smiled thinly. "You could say that. He told us that Doyle has a personal vendetta against Prentiss, and that you would be able to tell us why. Did Reid ever work up a profile for him?"

Chevalier looked up from where he was linking his tablet to the big screen, under Manning's direction. "We got one released to us from Interpol that Dr. Reid refined."

"Interpol?"

"We should start from the beginning," Conyers said. "Ian Doyle was IRA to start with, but sometime in the early to mid-nineties, his gun-running group branched out. By the early 2000's, it was one of the most prominent in Europe, Asia, and North America." The big screen turned a flat blue, and then filled with a mug shot of a leathery-faced man with steel-grey hair and cold, pale eyes.

Manning glared at the screen. "Sure," she muttered. "For _him_ you behave."

"Because it was mostly overseas at the time," Conyers continued, "it was on the CIA's plate."

"Which is where Prentiss comes in," Hotch concluded. "She was CIA before she joined the FBI," he explained to Manning and Simons.

"And when Interpol started up a joint task force to profile terrorists, she was the CIA's contribution." The mug shot shrank, and a row of pictures popped up: three men and two women, the last of them a much younger Emily.

Before she joined the FBI, J.J. thought. Before they'd ever known her.

_Had_ they ever known her?

"Doyle was their last case. Every other agent who served on the JTF is long dead, murdered by Doyle."

"The task force just profiled?" Hotch asked. "They didn't perform arrests?"

"That was up to the individual countries. In Doyle's case, Italy."

"Why target the profilers and not the Italian authorities?" Simons asked. "This kind of long-term rage is more common to personal betrayals."

"That's the thing," Chevalier said. "It was a personal betrayal."

Conyers took over again. "Terrorist cells don't exactly advertise their membership rolls on Facebook, so they routinely sent in agents to infiltrate the organizations and study their subjects from the inside. They sent her in knowing what he liked in a woman: beautiful, sophisticated, and intelligent. She posed as a weapons dealer to get into his orbit, and when they met, she took it from there."

J.J. thought, _She slept with him._

More than that. It had to have been more. A mere one-night stand or quick fling wouldn't have supplied the insight she would have needed.

Conyers nodded at the screen, where a picture of Emily in a garden had appeared. She looked comfortable and relaxed, cutting flowers for the basket sitting by her hip. "Clearly, she did her job well and thoroughly. That's surveillance footage from the day of his arrest, at his villa in Tuscany."

"That makes sense," Manning noted. "Having your lover turn on you would certainly fuel that kind of rage."

One part of J.J. hated her for being so detached. The other part was grateful. Neither Simons nor Manning had known Emily, and their clearer gaze could only help on this case.

"Twenty years is a long time to still be nursing a broken heart," Simons said.

"Twenty-two," Chevalier said. "And it's more than just a broken heart. Doyle's organization went to pieces without him. Before he was arrested, it spanned three continents. When he escaped from prison fourteen years ago, he had maybe ten or twenty of his most loyal men. It's taken him this long to build it back up to a fraction of what it used to be."

"Which doesn't mean it's not dangerous," Conyers said. "He's still got fingers in a few minor pies overseas, not enough to concern the CIA. But the bulk of his operations moved to the States after his escape, which is why he's ours now. And he's a downright nasty one. His organization mostly supplies to domestic terrorism groups, gangs, the Mafia, you name it."

Chevalier added, "The FBI initially believed that the move was to avoid old enemies on both sides of the law, but as he's become more powerful, Interpol and CIA released various documents to us. Those included information about Emily Prentiss's supposed death. It didn't say where she'd been whisked off to, but it did confirm that she was alive. If Doyle suspected that, it would be another reason to rebuild his organization here rather than go back to Europe."

"He could make new stateside connections," Hotch said, "and use them to hunt her down."

"Twenty-two years," Simons said. "That's a long time to let it stew."

It wouldn't be hot and furious anymore, J.J. thought, but cold, bitter cold and hard as iron, and exponentially more dangerous than the heat. He was a family annihilator, Reid had said. He destroyed his targets by taking not only their lives, but everything they loved too.

"These men take business seriously," Conyers said. "And there's also the matter of the boy."

J.J's first thought was, _Oh, my God. Emily had a baby. Another baby._

But Conyers said, "This was in the information Interpol turned over to us. Doyle had a son named Declan, about five or six at the time of his father's arrest. His mother was long dead, so Doyle's housekeeper apparently adopted the kid and brought him from Italy to the US. Two years later, this happened."

"Oh, my _God!"_ Garcia choked out.

J.J. stared at the lurid pictures of a little blond boy and a dark-haired woman, blindfolded and crumpled against a blood-splattered brick wall. She sucked in calming breaths. It wasn't as if she'd never seen murdered children, but she generally had a little more warning.

Conyers continued, "Prentiss was the only agent who knew about Declan. She didn't even put him in the first version of the profile. His existence and these pictures turned up together in the second version."

Hotch said in his coldest, flattest voice, "You're saying that Prentiss killed the boy."

"Or had him killed," Conyers said.

_"No."_

Everyone looked at her.

J.J. flattened her hands on the table, almost pushing herself out of the chair with the force of her conviction. "Not Emily, not a child. Never."

"Sorry," Conyers said, not sounding sorry at all. "That's where the evidence points."

"Then the evidence is wrong, because Emily would not do that," she said.

"I agree it's an ugly business, Agent Jareau. And we certainly have no concrete proof that Prentiss was involved. But the important thing here is that Doyle thinks she was. The prison where he was being held used those exact pictures in his interrogations."

"You said the other members of the task force were murdered?" J.J. asked, trying to get her voice under control. This was what she did. Looking at things just like this. "What was his pattern?"

"Profile says he's something called a family annihilator, which is when-"

"We're familiar with the term," Hotch said quietly.

Conyers flushed slightly, but skated over that patch as if it hadn't happened. "Doyle escaped from prison in early 2011 and the first order of business was to go after the task force. The first victim was Jeremy Wolff in February. Prentiss was counted as the second of Doyle's victims, after that fire in March, until Interpol's documents revealed the ruse. Tsia Moseley was another one, died October of 2012. Those were the three single, unattached members of the group. Well, I say unattached, but Wolff and Moseley were engaged. Moseley rabbited after Wolff's death and it took Doyle a year and a half to catch up with her. He really saved his ire for the agents with families, though."

More photographs appeared. A man, woman, and a girl, all tied to chairs, slack and blank-eyed in death. Another set showed a man and a young teenage boy. Vivid bursts of blood and brain matter painted the walls. Under the blood spatter, faint streaks like tear stains traveled down the adults' faces.

"Sean McAllister had a wife and daughter," Conyers told them. "Clyde Easter had a son. In both cases, the child was killed first, in front of the father. McAllister also had to watch his wife die. He stayed alive for about an hour and a half afterwards. In the case of Easter, Doyle had him for close to a day before successfully capturing his son. The kid died half an hour after Doyle took him, and Easter about an hour later."

"It's Doyle's way of recreating what they did to him," Hotch said. "And a form of torture. The delay between the death of the children and the fathers is another way of drawing out the agony."

"That's what Dr. Reid said," Chevalier told them. "Also something about the bodies remaining in the room in the interim."

"So that McAllister and Easter had to look at them while they waited to die," Simons said. "Just the way he had to look at the pictures of - " He paused, obviously casting around for the name of Doyle's son.

"Declan," Chevalier supplied.

"Right," Simons said. "Declan."

J.J. said, "Ninety minutes in one case, sixty in the other. It's just about long enough for the initial shock to fade and the agony to start sinking in." A mental picture of Henry and Cliff flickered across her mind, and she shut her eyes.

"That's the thinking," Conyers said. "But Prentiss didn't have any kids - "

"She didn't at the time," Hotch said. "She does now."

"What?" Conyers said sharply.

"A daughter," Hotch said. "Thirteen. Named Elizabeth. They've been living undercover in Atlanta."

"If Doyle knows about her - " Chevalier said, breaking off as if he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yes," Hotch said. "Prentiss realized that too. They disappeared from Atlanta two days ago, but it was apparently under their own power. They may have been alerted by a murder that took place the same day. Do the names Nancy Barville or Allen Waites appear in your paperwork anywhere?"

Conyers frowned, clearly considering them. "No," he said. "Not so much as a blip. You said Doyle had Prentiss. What about the girl? Where is she?"

"Safe. We were recently informed that she's with her father."

"Where? We'll send an agent out to take them into protective custody."

Hotch's face went stony. "Elizabeth's father is Dr. Reid."

After a second or two, Conyers said, "Ah."

Chevalier didn't say anything.

Hotch said, "We need copies of the Interpol profile, and any further information you have."

While they discussed interdepartmental and interagency logistics, J.J. got to her feet and went to the table, where her tea was rapidly cooling. It felt like it had been years since she first poured the water over the tea bag. She added honey, watching it slide to the bottom of the cup, and tried to work out the feelings raging in her chest. She felt like somebody in a boxing ring, absorbing blow after blow until they simply ceased to register anymore.

More secrets.

Emily, sleeping with a criminal for a profile. Pretending to be in love with a sociopath, for a profile.

And Doyle's son. A six-year-old child.

She braced her hands on the counter and leaned into it, gritting her teeth. Her head actually hurt, because it _didn't work._ Not Emily. She had always been at her most driven and ferocious when the case involved children. One of Henry's best baby pictures showed Emily lifting him high into the air, laughing into his happy face. For someone so guarded in other ways, it was amazing how simply and easily she could love a child.

Maybe because they never asked for her secrets.

"J.J."

She looked around to find Garcia standing next to her.

"Emily did not do that," the other woman said.

"I want to believe that."

"You _want_ to?"

She pressed her fingers into her eyes. Her stomach swam with acid. "It's been so long - and all these things we just heard, we never knew any of it."

Garcia's soft hands closed around hers and pulled them down. "But we knew _her."_

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes," Garcia said. "So much yes. Our girl, our Emily, she was tough but she had that gooey marshmallowy center that she thought she hid soooo well. That - " she jerked her head at the screen, where Declan Doyle and his foster mother were captured in bloody death. "That is not somebody with a gooey marshmallow center. That's somebody hard clear through, and that's not Emily. And I'll go through every bit and byte in that file to prove it."

"The thing is," a voice said, "it doesn't really matter."

They both looked around to see Agent Chevalier, standing close to them. J.J. hadn't even heard him walk up.

"Look, I know that the part about Doyle's son hit you hard," he said in a low voice. "Both of you. I saw it. But whether or not she actually did kill Declan Doyle, or had him killed, or caused him to be killed . . . it doesn't matter. Doyle holds her responsible."

"I know," J.J. said. "And that's all that matters to the profile, too. But - "

Garcia said, "You don't think she did that either, do you?"

"I never knew Emily Prentiss," he told them. "I would have been about fourteen when she disappeared from D.C."

"But still," Garcia persisted.

He shrugged. "I . . . I guess nobody ever wants to believe that someone can take a child's life in cold blood."

"We see it all the time," J.J. said.

He shot her a sidelong glance. "You do, don't you?"

"Chevalier," Conyers called out, and the younger agent went to him. They had a low-voiced conversation.

Hotch waved Garcia over, and she went, with a concerned backward look to J.J.

J.J. turned her back and picked up the mug. She hugged it to her chest as she stared out into the bullpen and all the people working away, just as before. The clear glass doors opened to admit a lanky girl in ratty jeans, a glittery pink shirt, and shocking blue hair. Then directly behind her, Reid.

It was Elizabeth. That girl in the loud clothes and the Garcia-worthy hair was Emily and Reid's daughter.

She knew she should say something to the others, but she couldn't. Her eyes were fixed on the pair.

Elizabeth looked apprehensively around the bullpen, her shoulders drawing in. Reid touched her shoulder and pointed across the room at the walkway, his body language full of reassurance. Elizabeth's gaze followed his gesture, and then she looked along the walkway until she spotted the conference room. Her eyes met J.J.'s.

Did she know who they were?

Reid looked up too, and when he saw her, his face changed. Shame? Apprehension? J.J. couldn't read his expression, or maybe she didn't want to. She looked over her shoulder and said to the others, "Guys? They're here."


	6. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the late post this week, you guys. I was having internet issues and I know a lot of you have really been waiting for this chapter.

* * *

><p><em>One of the hardest parts of all of this - besides, obviously, fearing for your lives at all times - is not being able to tell anybody. I opened the picture of Elizabeth after her belt test, with that big smile on her face. I wanted to hit the forward button and send it to Morgan. I wanted print it out and take it in to work so I could pin it up above my desk. I wanted to show random strangers in the cafeteria. "Look, this is my daughter. You see that purple belt? She could kick your kidneys out through your nose. Isn't she beautiful? That's my daughter."<em>

_It's not even the big things. Last week, Manning came in exhausted, because she and Laila had been at the hospital half the night with Maria, who had apparently swallowed some small change. Everyone started telling stories about the things that their children had swallowed when they were that age, and I very nearly said, "Well, when Elizabeth was ten months old, she ate most of a ball of string. Emily told me she caught the tail end of it and pulled the whole thing up out of her stomach hand over hand." The words were on the tip of my tongue. I can only imagine what would have happened next._

_When I finally can introduce them to Elizabeth, I know they'll be tremendously hurt and upset that I kept such a secret. I have to believe that they'll understand._

* * *

><p>In all the stories about the BAU, her parents had talked about the people and a little bit - a tiny, tiny bit - about the cases. Elizabeth had never bothered to think about the place where they worked, but she probably wouldn't have pictured this big room, all desks and computers, phones ringing, the smell of burned coffee. And people turning to stare at them.<p>

Elizabeth, who didn't like people staring at her even when she hadn't spent two days on the run, felt her shoulders hunch. Her mom would have said, _Chin up, Libs. Give 'em a show. You're not scared._

Her dad said, "It's okay, Elizabeth. They're just curious." He pointed. "It's up the stairs and over."

She looked at the stairs, and then across to the big windows of the room where they were going. Where her dad's team was. She could just see heads and backs, people moving around and talking to each other in the room.

Mostly, though, Elizabeth saw the lady in the window, blond, about Mom's age. She was holding a coffee cup and watching them without expression.

Who was she? There were three possibilities: J.J., Garcia, or Manning. No, not Manning. Too old to be Manning. Garcia? But Mom said Garcia usually had crazy hair and crazier clothes and at least one sparkly thing on her, and there was nothing crazy or sparkly about the lady in the window.

That left J.J. Her mom's best friend, her dad's honorary big sister. Though that lady didn't look anything like her either. At least, not like she'd sounded from Mom's stories and Dad's emails.

The possible J.J. turned her head and said something over her shoulder, and it was like a freeze ray had been turned off and Elizabeth could move again.

Apparently, the freeze ray released her dad, too, because he said, "Go on. They're waiting for us." He gestured for her to go first.

She stopped at the top at the stairs and turned. "Dad."

He stopped, too, a few steps down. Their eyes were level.

"Is your team going to find Mom?"_ Alive? _But the word and all its implications stuck in her throat like sand.

He said, "Yes."

She studied him, taking in the lines around his mouth, the serious look in his eyes, the very faint curls at his neck because he needed a haircut. Her dad. Her dad that she'd only known for eleven point two-five percent of her life, and most of that through words on a screen. She had to fight the feeling that he would dissolve. "Are you saying that just to make me feel better?"

He reached out and took her hand. "Elizabeth. We know this man. We know how his mind works. As long as you are safe, your mom is still alive."

When they'd first met, he had caught her in a lie and told her how he knew. _You've turned your body away from me, your voice has changed to a higher pitch, and your muscles are tense._

He looked directly at her, his voice steady and his shoulders relaxed. But she also knew, from reading, that a person could want something to be the truth so much that their bodies didn't register it as a lie. And how did he know_ really_? Wasn't this all just a big guessing game?

She bit her lip at the disloyal thought. Her dad would fix things, she told herself. He would find Mom, and then all this, everything, would be over. Things would be different. But the doubts still gnawed away at her heart like a worm in an apple.

He gave her hand a little shake. "Come along, Pond."

The reference to her favorite incarnation of the Doctor made her smile a little bit, and she let him guide her along the walkway into the official-looking room, full of silent people looking at her. Elizabeth suddenly found it hard to breathe. Their gazes were like fingers pressing all over her skin. She set her jaw and looked back as hard as she could.

Closest to them was a tall, solid-looking man with grey hair, heavy brows lowered over dark eyes. It had to be Hotch, her dad's boss-and her mom's, too, at one time. He had four kids, Elizabeth remembered. The oldest was in college and wanted to be an artist and the argument, Dad said, had been _epic._

The lady sitting next to him, with her fingers pressed to her mouth, was wearing a purple and green dress that showed off her pregnancy, and matching sparkly eyeglasses. This had to be Penelope Garcia. She'd broken up with her longtime boyfriend a year ago and decided to go get artificially inseminated because time was a'wasting.

A stocky Asian woman had be Manning, who had a wife and a two-year-old baby. Next to her was a huge man, well over six foot and bigger than anybody else in the room. Dad said Simons was the gentlest person on the whole team and had gone to college on a fencing scholarship.

They were both looking at her dad like, _Well? Explain._

The lady at the window was J.J, Elizabeth was almost sure now. She had a daughter Elizabeth's age, and a son a few years older. She kept looking at Elizabeth, then up to her dad, then away, flick, flick, flick, then back again as if she couldn't help herself. Her face was white and her lips pressed together.

Her dad's team, she thought. In her dad's emails and her mom's stories, they'd sounded like a crowd of aunts and uncles that would love her on sight. In person, they looked serious and scary and not especially welcoming.

There were two more men at the table. The older one studied her like she was a bug in a glass jar. The younger one didn't look at her at all, but at his hands, arranging and rearranging his fingers in intricate tangles. Elizabeth racked her mental file of her dad's emails, all three hundred and seventeen of them, plus the one hundred and twenty-nine of his emails to her mother that she'd been permitted to read, and couldn't muster enough clues to guess who they might be.

Her dad closed the door behind him and cleared his throat. "Um. You must be wondering . . . Everyone, this Elizabeth." His hand settled on her shoulder, and she could feel his nervousness in the twitching, shifting patterns of pressure from his fingers. "She's Emily's daughter. And mine."

She couldn't define the emotions she heard in his voice, and Elizabeth's courage gave out. She ducked her head and tugged at the hem of her stupid shirt, wishing desperately that she'd kept her dad's jacket on. At least she'd taken the clip-on lip ring off in the car. She reached up to smooth her hair down, and remembered that she was still wearing the wig.

For a moment, she considered leaving it on. Her real hair was probably all sweaty and grimy, not to mention the awful chop job Mom had done on it. But at least it wasn't _blue._ She dug her fingers under the edge and peeled it off, then the wig cap that had held her real hair in check.

"Oh!"

It was Garcia, whose eyes now brimmed with tears. "Oh, _sweetie_." She pushed herself out of her chair and started forward.

Elizabeth jolted back a step and ran into her dad. Garcia froze, arms lifted.

Her father's hands settled on her shoulders again, warm and reassuring. "Elizabeth has had a very difficult two days," he said.

"Oh," Garcia said in a small voice. "Sorry, honey. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," Elizabeth said. She hadn't been scared. Just sort of . . . startled.

"You just - you look so much like your mommy."

She didn't, really, Elizabeth thought. Mom said she looked exactly like her dad, all legs and bones and eyes. But it felt rude to contradict her, especially after jumping away, although who tried to hug a person before they were even properly introduced? So she didn't say anything.

Her dad said into the silence, "Elizabeth, this is Garcia. And there, that's Hotch, and Simons, and Manning, and over by the window, J.J. I've told you about them."

She'd been right every single time, even about J.J. She gave them all a little wave and a tight smile. At the gesture, Hotch blinked and Manning's brows went up. Elizabeth dropped her hand and stuffed it into her pocket, and for some reason _that_ made J.J. huff out her breath. Well, God, maybe she just shouldn't do anything then.

Her dad was speaking again. "And these men are Agents Conyers and Chevalier, from Organized Crime."

Conyers, the older man, said to her dad, "Kept quiet about this, didn't you?"

"There were good reasons," her dad said.

_Such as, I sort of like being alive, thanks very much, _Elizabeth thought. But she didn't quite have the courage to say it.

Chevalier had looked up from his knotted fingers. When Elizabeth's eyes met his, he gave her a very small smile, just a tiny wry curl of his mouth. It was the first smile anybody in this stark, official room had given her. Even huggy Garcia had been crying, not smiling.

She felt her own mouth curl up a little in response, and her shoulders relax. They went tight again at the next words to break the silence.

"How long have you known?" It was J.J. Her voice was scratchy and raw.

"Eighteen months," her dad said.

"You've known where Emily is, and about - _her _- for a year and a half, and you never bothered to - "

"I had to keep them safe."

"And this whole Organized Crime brain wave of yours, that was all about - "

Elizabeth burst out, "Why does that matter right now?"

Everyone looked at her again, but she forgot to feel self-conscious, because the way J.J. had said _her_ kept echoing in her ears. Like she was a dirty little secret.

"You can talk about all that later. You need to find my mom right now. Dad said you were going to find my mom." She heard her voice shake and bit down on her lip.

Hotch said, "She's quite right." He shot J.J. and her dad a sharp glance. "All that can wait."

After a long moment, J.J. took in a breath and nodded. Her eyes skittered over Elizabeth and away, but she set her shoulders as if she was ready to work.

Hotch continued, "Right now, we need to concentrate on finding Prentiss."

_Who's Prentiss?_ Elizabeth thought, and then remembered it was her mom's real last name. It made her feel more disconnected than ever.

"Reid, this is your case."

"Now, wait a minute," Conyers said. "He's clearly emotionally involved."

"I have been from the beginning," her dad said. "And I have the most complete knowledge of all the players."

"Whose fault is that?" Conyers said snarkily.

Hotch shot him a quelling look, and he shut up. "Tell us what we need," Hotch said, turning back to her dad.

Her dad frowned for a second. Just as Elizabeth began to wonder if he actually knew what to do, he said, "We need Doyle's holdings, both confirmed and possible, in the D.C. area. He hasn't had time to take her far, especially since he still doesn't have Elizabeth. Conyers, I think that's your area."

Conyers looked sort of like he wanted to object to being ordered around, but he got to his feet and said, "We can do this better downstairs." He started gathering up his things.

Her dad continued. "We also need footage from platform five at Union Station. How long ago was that, Elizabeth?"

She'd told him in the car, Elizabeth thought, but was so happy to have something specific to concentrate on that she didn't dwell. "Is that clock accurate?"

"It's off by two-point-four minutes."

"Two hours and forty-three minutes ago, then," she said.

J.J. pulled out her phone. "I'll get that," she said.

Her dad nodded and put his hand on Elizabeth's back, gently nudging her towards the low couch that ran along one side of the room. "And now the team needs to hear what happened to you in Atlanta and how you got to D.C."

Elizabeth went, reluctantly. She didn't much want to stay in this room with these weird, tense people. "Why?"

"It's important, Libs."

The nickname, her mom's favorite for her, was a small comfort, but she still didn't like the idea.

"Actually," Simons said, "we know a lot of the details already. Atlanta PD requested our assistance because of all the anomalies in the case. But we do need to hear your side of it, Elizabeth."

At the door, Chevalier said something in a quick, low voice to Conyers. The older man left, and Chevalier came back in, tablet under his arm. "I'd like to hear this too," he said. "I might able to spot links to current investigations in the Southeast."

Her dad nodded and turned his gaze back to Elizabeth. "Just tell us what happened, as clearly and concisely as you can."

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

"Why don't you start at the beginning?"

The beginning? What was the beginning? When they'd left Atlanta? When her dad had found them by accident, eighteen months ago? When her mom had faked her own death and left D.C., fourteen years ago? When her mom had put Doyle in prison, twenty-two years ago? When her mom had decided to join the CIA in the first place?

Hotch said, "Tell us what happened when Officer Waites pulled you out of class on Tuesday."


	7. Chapter 6

_We have regular makeup lessons now. Not the usual kind. We talk about how to use it for disguise, knowing which colors and how much to make herself look younger or older or simply someone other than herself. It's not just that, either. We go over clothes and hair, and more than all of that, attitude and carriage. Give her fifteen minutes and she can transform herself._

_When she was little, we used to play something she called the people game. We'd be on the bus, or in the grocery store, and we would have to stop and look around at all the people around us. Then we would let ten or fifteen minutes go by, and look around again to see who was still there. As she got older, the time went from ten minutes to fifteen, to half an hour. Now she can point out the same faces four hours later. Now she has the kind of mind that _looks _for the same faces, four hours later._

_Nancy Barville wanted me to give her up for adoption. Actually, she wanted me to have an abortion, but I wasn't a scared fifteen-year-old anymore and I wasn't going to do that. I did think about the adoption though, over and over again throughout my pregnancy. I even concocted elaborate schemes to get her back to D.C., to get her to you somehow without you knowing who she really was. She could've had you, and the team, and a life, not just a hidden existence._

_Nancy wouldn't've helped, though. Too risky. And there was no assurance that a single man with a highly mobile job would have been able to adopt a stray, anonymous infant. So I told myself it was better if she was with me. If she was adopted by some well-meaning couple with a house in the suburbs, they'd never know what to do if Doyle found her, and neither would she._

_But I've always been teaching her how to run. She never would have had to know these things if I'd given her up._

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday - 1:01 pm<em>

"What kind of accident?" Elizabeth asked.

The police officer _looked_ like a real one. His uniform fit, and he had a name tag - "A. Waites" - and his badge number was printed right on his badge. Seven-four-eight-two-three-nine-seven. But her brain was pinging like crazy.

Mom said pay attention to the little voice. That girls didn't, and they should.

Currently, he was trying to arrange his face in compassionate lines, and not succeeding. "Traffic accident, darlin'."

Elizabeth had to force herself not to frown. She disliked people who used such endearments on short acquaintance. It never seemed entirely sincere to her.

"I don't mean to scare you, honey - " _Strike two._ " - but it don't look good. We need to get to the hospital as soon as possible."

_Doesn't_ look good, she thought, but didn't say, because people often got annoyed when you corrected their grammar. "I need my backpack. I left it in the classroom."

He shifted. "Someone can bring it to you. We really need to go."

"But I really need it." She opened the door of the classroom. Unfortunately, he followed.

Professor Zondervan stopped in the middle of a really neat-looking equation. "Elizabeth? Everything all right?"

"My mom was in an accident," she said, and she didn't have to fake the tremor in her voice.

"Oh!" Her friend Ophelia got up and hugged her. "Oh, my god. Do you need me to drive you to the hospital?"

"I'll take her," Waites said.

Ophelia gave him a suspicious look over Elizabeth's shoulder. She made it a point to be suspicious of any and all governmental representatives. Elizabeth sort of thought she prided herself on it. "Wouldn't it be better for a friend to take her?"

"We have to go," the officer said.

"Well, which hospital is she at? I'll meet you there."

"There's no need for that. Miss? Now."

No "honey" anymore," Elizabeth noted. And he'd sidestepped the question of the hospital.

She hefted her bag, judging the weight. Her tablet reader and two heavy hardcover books from the campus library were in there. She could hit him now, just slam this bag into his stomach and run.

Ophelia said, "Elizabeth, do you want me to come with you?"

He was wearing a gun. If he fired it in here, he could hit somebody. Ophelia, or Professor Zondervan, or one of her other classmates. Nobody in here deserved to get shot just because of her.

"I'll be okay," she said.

"I'll call you," Ophelia said. "Anything you need, just let me know."

"Okay." She shouldered her backpack and looked at the officer. "I'm ready now."

He made her go first, and followed just a little too closely, looming over her from behind. The skin on her back crawled. She gripped the straps of her backpack and tried to look like she was just worried about her mom.

Her mom, who'd always said, _If anything happens to me, you go to your dad. You go right to your dad._

His phone rang. "Yes? Yes. I've got her. Uh-huh. No. Uh, about twenty minutes?"

She looked over her shoulder and shifted from foot to foot, trying to compensate for the extra weight of her bag. The timing had to be just right. If she did it while he was on the line, whoever he was talking to would know something was wrong.

Waites laughed, and something about the sound made all the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "She's a little girl. I don't think I'll have any trouble with a little girl."

She drew in her breath through her nose, slow and controlled.

He pulled the phone away from his ear, momentarily distracted while disconnecting. She pivoted on her heel and kicked him square in the crotch.

He crumpled into a ball, letting out a noise like, _Bwuh!_ The phone flew out of his hand and skidded down the polished linoleum floor. She ran after it, scooped it up on the fly, and took it with her down the stairwell.

On her way off campus, she paused just long enough to throw it in the fountain, then redoubled her pace. She cut through alleys and around buildings, staying away from the sidewalk that ran along the street. She didn't know what car the cop was driving, and this way was faster anyway.

Doubts zig-zagged through her brain. What if the officer hadn't been an agent of Doyle's? What if her mom really was in the hospital? _We don't have very long,_ he'd said. What if Mom had been crossing the street and gotten hit by a car? What if he'd just been talking to his captain or something?

_I won't have any trouble with a little girl_, he'd said on the phone.

She sank down behind one of the big white geometric statues that lined the wall of the station, panting. Her heart hammered against the inside of her chest until she thought she might choke on it. She closed her eyes and took deep, calming breaths, the way that Master Tom had them do before practice.

When she didn't feel so much like she'd vibrate right out of her skin, Elizabeth dug out her phone and dialed. _Pick up, Mom. Please pick up._

Maybe she shouldn't pray for Mom to pick up, because if Mom really was in the hospital, than it would be a nurse or something, right? If Mom really was in the hospital, then it would mean that Doyle hadn't found them . . . right?

_No, Elizabeth Emily,_ her mother's voice said in her head. _You know better than that_.

"Hi - "

"Mom?"

" - you've reached Nora Brewster. I'm not available. Leave a message and I'll get back to you."

The beep rang in her ears.

"Um - um - " She gulped air. "Mom, a-a man - a cop - came to my classroom and said you were in an accident. Are you okay? What's going on?" She gulped again. "I, um - I'll call you soon."

She disconnected and held her phone for a moment, breathing in and out. Then she dialed another number.

* * *

><p>"Your second call, that was to Nancy Barville," Manning said.<p>

"How did you know?"

"They found your phone. Why did you call her? She lived three miles away. How did you know her?"

Elizabeth's fingers twisted around themselves. "I-I've always known her."

"She was a social worker until two months ago," Manning said.

"Uh-huh. But - "

Garcia said, "Why did Emily need a social worker?"

Her dad said, "Elizabeth, you don't have to - "

"'Cause Mom was in a homeless shelter when she was first pregnant with me."

Everyone stared at her. She stared back, chin set. Well, they'd wanted to know.

"Homeless?" Garcia asked tremulously, looking at Elizabeth's dad. "Emily was homeless?"

His fingers drummed on his knees. "Obviously the very nature of homelessness makes statistics inherently difficult to gather. However, experts estimate that in 2011, about 3.5 million Americans were without permanent abode, mostly due to the poor economy at the time." He looked up. "It was her cover. Nancy Barville was her CIA contact."

Hotch said,_ "That's _where the CIA put Prentiss?" Mom and Dad had said he was usually a pretty calm person, but there was something under his words, like magma rumbling.

"It's no big deal," Elizabeth said stiffly. "You know, nobody ever looks at homeless people and it's really hard to track them. So it was a good cover really. And anyway it wasn't for long. She was in transitional housing by the time she had me."

She wanted them to stop looking at her like that. She hadn't thought about it in years, not since they'd moved to the house and she'd started going to school with kids who didn't know what an EBT card was, or what it was like asking for extra time to pay the rent. She didn't want to think about it now.

"Mom and I are okay now, you know," she added. "We're fine. We haven't needed help for years."

She looked over at Chevalier. He must have seen her discomfort, because he leaned forward. "Okay. So you called Mrs. Barville. What happened on the phone?"

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday, 1:19 pm<em>

Three rings, and then somebody picked up. "Hello?"

"Um - hello?" It wasn't the voice she'd been expecting, with its strong Southern accent and no-nonsense manner. This was a man's voice, impatient and official-sounding.

"Who is this?"

She scrambled for an excuse to be calling. "I'm just trying . . . to . . . reach Mrs. Barville? About her Girl Scout cookies? Is she there?"

The voice went slower and louder and ridiculously sugary, if she were a mentally deficient puppy. "Oh, little girl, she can't talk to you right now."

"Can I leave a message or something?"

"Can I speak to your mommy or daddy?"

"Not right now," Elizabeth said, listening hard to the background noise, all voices talking in brisk tones. "Please, can you tell her that her cookies are here? She ordered three boxes of Samoas, and one box of Trefoils, and - "

"Detective," someone called out. "You really should see this."

He said, "Honey, your mommy or daddy should call back later, okay?"

"Oh-okay," she stammered. "Um. Bye."

She hung up and sat clutching the phone. There were police at Mrs. Barville's house, and he hadn't said she could call the hospital or something. Mrs. Barville was either dead or very, _very_ badly hurt. Elizabeth pressed her fist to her mouth for a moment.

Mrs. Barville was brisk and competent and always in control. She didn't like Elizabeth and Elizabeth didn't like her, but she at least would have known what to do.

Well, Elizabeth knew what to do, too. She just didn't want to, because it would be like giving up on her mom.

She looked down at her hand and realized it was shaking. In fact, her whole body was shaking. _Pull yourself together, Elizabeth Emily, _she ordered herself sternly.

_Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom._

_Mom would say there's work to do._

* * *

><p>Elizabeth walked into Five Points and purposefully headed for the customer-service desk. The lady behind the counter was frowning at her computer screen, as if her work was very important, but Elizabeth could see the reflection of kittens in her glasses. She was also wearing one of those necklaces with the creepy birthstone-dolly charms that signified she had children. Three girls, born in April, October, and December.<p>

_Perfect._

"Excuse me?" she said, using the same high, hesitant voice she had with the police detective who'd answered Mrs. Barville's phone.

The lady looked up, and her face softened when she saw Elizabeth. "Yes, honey? How can I help you?"

She shifted, biting her lip. "Can you tell me, please, how do I get to the Amtrak station?"

The clerk explained how to take the subway, told her which stop she had to get off at to transfer to a bus, and how to get to the bus stop from that station. "Shouldn't take you but fifteen or twenty minutes."

Elizabeth studied the map the clerk drew for her, even though she'd memorized all the routes a year ago. "Okay. Thank you."

"Are you taking the train somewhere all by yourself, sweetie?"

"Oh, no, I'm meeting my mom at the station."

"Well, okay. You just come back here if you have any trouble." The clerk smiled at her kindly.

She smiled back. "Thank you very much." She turned away, headed for the hallway that led to the subways. In the hallway, there were a set of bathrooms. She ducked into the women's restroom and paused to study herself in the mirror.

Blue shirt with a black undershirt, jeans held up with a stylish red belt, long hair held off her face with a barrette. It was how Elizabeth Brewster always looked.

She picked the handicapped stall, which had the most room to maneuver. She unzipped the front pocket of her backpack and took out a makeup bag her mom had given her a year ago, when they'd started to practice for this. It held a pre-filled debit card, a ponytail holder, a set of nail scissors, a little makeup, and a pair of oversize sunglasses. She'd added a selection of temporary tattoos and a clip-on lip ring herself.

Who was she going to be today?

_Violet_, she thought. Violet was tough and smart. She wouldn't be afraid.

She took off her shirt.

* * *

><p>The Greyhound station was only about a half a mile down the street from Five Points, and she estimated that she could get there in under fifteen minutes. She caught a glimpse of herself in the McDonald's window, and almost got dizzy because she didn't recognize that girl, with the messy bun, the big sunglasses, and the black snake tattoos that curled along her collarbones.<p>

Good, she told herself. It was _good._ Nobody else would recognize her either.

She kept resisting the urge to pull up the thin black tank top she wore, which had been okay as an undershirt but felt awfully skimpy as her only shirt. The March air chilled all the exposed skin. She also couldn't scratch at the tattoos. They might start to crack and peel at the edges.

From a passing car, someone whistled at her, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Ewww. Ew, ew, ew. She remembered Ophelia's coaching, and stuck her middle finger up at the car's rear window. They probably didn't see, but she felt her cheeks heat anyway. She'd never flipped anyone the bird right out in public like this.

Elizabeth Brewster never had, she reminded herself. Violet Beauregard did, and also wore skimpy tank tops, a nose ring, and dark purple lipstick. Right now, she was Violet Beauregard, and she didn't take crap from anybody.

_Shit._ She didn't take _shit_ from anybody.

She lengthened her stride, the cotton bag with her tablet bumping her hip.

At the station, she used the debit card at an automated kiosk to buy a ticket on the next bus leaving, to the third stop on the line. She'd get off on the first. Misdirection, like her question about the Amtrak station. Her mom always said use every chance you get to nudge their gaze another way.

She settled herself into the seat all the way at the back, next to the emergency exit. Too many people would pass her at the front. She put her bag next to her on the other vacant seat, so nobody would sit with her, and slid down into the corner in a way that said, _Don't you dare sit next to me._

She groped in her pocket and then made herself go still. She'd left her phone in her backpack for a reason. Too easy to track. It was no use wishing she had it now. When she got off the bus, she'd go somewhere to buy a disposable phone. She still had enough money on the card for that.

And she'd call her dad.

Her lips trembled. _It's me, Dad. Mom's missing. I think Doyle found us. Come and get me please._

What if he wasn't there?

She pushed her fingers into her eyes and whispered, "Go away, Big Green Monster."

But there was nobody to finish the sentence for her _- "And don't come back until I say so."_


	8. Chapter 7

A/N: Okay, I really meant to make this request in the last chapter's author's note, but I forgot. Anybody out there a fluent French speaker? I think it's going to come up at least a few more times and I'd like to use a human being to double-check Google Translate.

* * *

><p><em>Don't you realize, there's nobody that our daughter would rather have as a mom than you?<em>

_Although Julia Child might be in the running right at the moment._

* * *

><p><em>Jesus, the kid finds an ancient DVD set at the library and she suddenly thinks she's a gourmet chef. The obnoxious thing is she really seems to have some kind of knack for it. Are you sure you don't have, like, a famous chef in your background? I cook for survival, you only cook if the local takeouts are all closed. It had to come from somewhere, and I doubt either of my parents would know what to do with themselves in a kitchen.<em>

* * *

><p><em>I have no idea where she gets it. My mom didn't know which end of a frying pan was up when she <em>wasn't_ having a schizophrenic episode, and I certainly don't recall my father ever sauteing anything._

_Maybe it's a rebellion against years of macaroni and cheese._

* * *

><p><em>Screw you. My macaroni and cheese is awesome.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday, 3:15 pm<em>

The bus braked hard, and Elizabeth's eyes popped open. She felt like she'd dipped her eyeballs in sand. Her head pounded and her mouth was dry. It was like she'd been crying, but she hadn't. She touched her cheeks just to make sure. She just felt numb.

She wanted her mom.

The bus braked again, and bumped over a curb. They were at the station. She grabbed her bag and got out of her seat, trying to not look antsy as everyone on the whole bus went about the same process, way more slowly. Casual, she lectured herself, just look casual.

Through her sunglasses, she scanned the horizon outside the window for a store where she could buy a cell phone. There was only Wal-Mart. She wrinkled her nose. She was not fond of Wal-Mart. Mom had worked there when she was little. Elizabeth still remembered the way she would sigh, putting on the dark blue smock to go to work, and the tightness around her mouth and eyes when she came back home.

She pressed her lips together, pulling in her breath through her nose. She had to stay calm and clear-headed, even if it meant not thinking about Mom.

As she climbed off the bus, she automatically scanned the lines of people, looking for anybody who'd been at the Greyhound station and hadn't gotten on the bus with her. Nobody looked familiar.

But there was a woman in a puffy jacket and baggy pants, just turning away from the map on the wall. Her mousy, greying hair fell in an untidy mop around her shoulders, and thick glasses perched on her sharp nose obscured the top half of her face.

Elizabeth stopped so suddenly that someone walked into her. She stumbled sideways and they swore at her before continuing around, muttering about self-absorbed teenagers. By the time Elizabeth could look for the woman again, she'd disappeared.

Her shoulders sagged. Maybe she wanted to see her mom so bad she was just imagining things.

On the other hand . . . if it _was_ Mom, she wouldn't want a big noisy reunion in the bus station, right? It would attract too much attention. And she'd been standing at the map. She knew Elizabeth liked maps, liked seeing things laid out clearly. So she knew that Elizabeth would look in the direction of the map when she got off the bus. Maybe she'd left a message or something.

Elizabeth had to force herself to walk casually over to the station wall and wait her turn until a fat, wheezing old man had found whatever he was looking for. Her eyes moved over the twisting nest of roads and streets, with a few corporate symbols scattered here and there to direct people to their next hamburger or motel room. Wedged into the frame of the map, there was a folded up square of paper. It looked like a gum wrapper. She glanced around. Her hand flashed out.

She waited until she was out of the station to open it, even though the hard little square burned like an ember in her fist.

The characters scrawled on the tiny paper would have looked like nonsense or graffiti to most people in the station. But Elizabeth recognized the two words in Cyrillic script. _Devochka moya. _"My girl" in Russian, and her mom's oldest pet name for her.

Her mom was here.

Or . . . Elizabeth's stomach clenched.

Or she was supposed to think that.

She turned the paper over and saw a number on the other side, ink smeared by her sweaty palm. 1123.

The first four numbers in a Fibonacci sequence? Maybe it was another message from her mom. It was reassuring, certainly, but it didn't help her any. Except-She frowned.

The paper had been stuck halfway up the frame, next to a green-and-white symbol for a cheap motel chain. She crumpled the paper into her fist again and turned. The big green-and-white sign loomed over her.

* * *

><p>The side door of the motel was locked, but there was still a plastic keycard in the lock. Elizabeth used it to open the door and stepped into the quiet motel hallway. She looked around and saw numbers on the doors. 1101. 1103 next to it.<p>

Far down the hall, a door clicked closed. She followed the tiny noise, heart thudding. On the doors, the numbers marched upward.

When she found 1123, she stopped. The keycard didn't have a room number marked on it, but she pushed it into the slot and watched the little light flash from red to green. She turned the handle and stepped back.

The door opened a few inches and then clunked to a halt, held by the security latch on the inside. All she could see was wall. Somebody was standing just on the other side of the door. She could tell from their shadow.

Her mom? Or just someone who wanted her to think so?

She curled her hands into fist, settled into fighting stance, and said softly, "Go away, Big Green Monster."

The door closed, then opened again, all the way because the security latch had been undone. The woman from the bus station, with her puffy jacket and messy hair, stood there. "And don't come back until I say so."

Elizabeth dove in and buried herself in her mother's embrace. "He said you were in an accident," she gasped out. "He said - "

"I'm fine." Her mother held her tight. The door thunked closed behind her. "I'm okay."

Elizabeth pressed her face into her mother's shoulder. Too soon, her mom's grip loosened. "You, Elizabeth? Are you okay? You said a cop came for you."

"I'm okay. I got away. Mom, wh-what are we going to do now?"

"What do you think? We're getting the hell out of Georgia."

Elizabeth looked down. "I was kind of hoping I made a mistake and we could go back home."

Mom shook her head without speaking.

She let a breath that shook and hiccuped. Mom kissed her on the forehead. "Listen, Libs. We've practiced for this, right?"

"Right."

"So you know what to do."

"Right."

"Good." Her mom turned and picked up a bulging backpack from the bed. "Get switched out. I want to be gone in fifteen minutes."

Elizabeth took it. "Can I keep my snakes?" she asked, touching the tattoos at her collarbones.

Her mom pulled the bulky jacket and the wig off. "You know better than that."

"But - " They made her feel cool and tough, she thought. You couldn't be afraid if you had snakes to protect you.

"What's the whole point of the extreme details, honey?"

Elizabeth sighed and mentally surrendered her snakes. "People see them, not you. Remove them and you disappear."

"Yep." Her mom handed her a pack of wet wipes. Elizabeth sighed and took the backpack into the bathroom with her.

From the room, her mom said, "Tell me about the cop."

Elizabeth scrubbed at her collarbones with a wet wipe, watching the snakes peel and flake off into black crumbles. The alcohol chilled her skin. "He came to Professor Zondervan's class." She related the rest of the encounter, including the phone call he'd placed, as she brushed her hair glassy smooth and parted it precisely down the center of her scalp.

Her mom came to the door of the bathroom. She was dressed in her bra and the bottom half of a pink velour warm-up suit. She'd taken off the wig, but her own short, dark hair was still confined to a nylon wig cap. "Did he use subservient words? Sir, ma'am - "

Well-used to her mom's puzzle-piecey way of thinking out loud, Elizabeth said, "No." She started braiding the left section of her hair, snugging it tight up behind her ear.

Her mom nodded and went back into the room. "Did he use his radio or a cell phone?"

"Um." She thought back as she fastened off the first braid, flipped it over her shoulder to hang down her back, and switched sides. "A cell phone."

"Okay. That's good. He was acting on his own. Probably bribed or blackmailed. That means we're not going to see the entire Atlanta PD after us. How did you get away?"

Elizabeth blushed and concentrated on her second braid. "Um. I . . . inflicted considerable testicular trauma."

Her mom appeared in the doorway again. She'd added the top half of the warm-up suit, and a candy-colored tank top underneath. The effect was overwhelming pinkness, like a cheap bonbon box or an aging sorority girl. "You kneed him in the balls? Did he try something with you?"

"No, it just seemed the most efficient way to distract him," Elizabeth said, fastening her second braid. "And, um, I kicked him, actually. Front snap kick. Would kneeing him have been more effective?"

Her mom reached out and rubbed off a little bit of tattoo that Elizabeth had missed. "Depends on your relative distance, and having seen you break boards with that kick of yours, I'd say it was plenty effective." She shook her head. "Considerable testicular trauma. That's my girl. What then?"

Elizabeth paused in the act of scrubbing the purple lipstick off her mouth. "I got out of there. I tried to call Mrs. Barville. But, Mom, there were cops at her house. One of them answered the phone."

Her mom didn't seem shocked by that news. "You talked to them? What did they say?"

"Nothing, really. He just said my mommy or daddy should call later." For a moment, indignation took over the fear. "Mom, you should've heard him. He talked to me like I was six. And stupid." It was hard to say which was more insulting. "I mean, I made my voice younger, but I don't think I sounded _that_ young."

"I've told you, honey, this is your great advantage," her mom said, going back into the bedroom. "People overlook kids. Underestimate them. When you're undercover, you want to be overlooked and underestimated."

Elizabeth followed her. "Mom?"

"Mm?" She pulled a frizzy blond wig out of her own backpack.

She gripped her braids. "Mom, do you think Mrs. Barville is okay?"

Her mom stopped, the wig in her hand like some dead animal. "No," she said in a low voice.

Elizabeth bit her lip. "Do you th-think she's still alive?"

Her mom turned to look at her, face unreadable. After a long moment, she said again, "No."

"Oh," she whispered. Dead. She'd thought maybe, but there was a difference between that and having Mom confirm it. She stared at nothing for a moment. "It was because of us, wasn't it."

"Honey," her mom said.

"She didn't even like me and she died for me."

Her mom sighed and came over to take her by the shoulders. One thumb made soothing little circles against her skin. "I've told you before, it's not a matter of liking or not liking. You and me, we were part of her job. For the past forty years, she was proud to do that job for the CIA and the United States of America. No, she wouldn't have wanted to go like that. But believe me, she accepted the possibility that she would die in the line of duty a long ago, and she was ready for it. Do you understand me?"

Elizabeth didn't, not really. But she nodded.

Her mom's mouth twisted, as if she realized that Elizabeth was lying to her. "Now it's up to us to make sure she didn't die in vain, and get ourselves to safety." She used her grip on Elizabeth's shoulders to turn her and point her at the bed, and the backpack sitting on the bedspread. "Get dressed. We're down to five minutes."

Elizabeth made herself focus on clothes. She switched the tank top and her jeans for a beige polo shirt with a private-school-ish emblem and a khaki skirt. She wrinkled her nose at her own reflection, trying to distract herself from thoughts of dead Mrs. Barville. Beige was not her friend. If she'd been herself, she would've added her red belt for a little color, but she'd left it buried in a trash can at Five Points.

She had some trouble buttoning the skirt. It was very snug around her hips. Maybe she was finally gaining some weight, she thought, It would nice not to look so much like a ruler.

She added long white knee socks and laced her battered black tennis shoes back on. As a final touch, since the sunglasses would look out of place with this outfit, she pulled on an oversized grey hoodie.

Her mom came out of the bathroom. "Ready?"

"Ready," Elizabeth said, stuffing her old clothes into the backpack. She could use them again.

"Nice. Very prim. Very private-school. What do you think?"

Elizabeth surveyed her mom. She'd donned the wig, then added green eyeshadow, big sunglasses, and swingy gold hoops. "You look like you're forty, trying to pass for thirty," she said. "Jean Granger is incredibly embarassed to be seen with you, Sally."

"Forty, huh?" Her mom pursed her lips. "I can live with that." She held out a phone. "It's got fifty dollars in credit," she said. "I've got an identical one in my pocket. Keep it on you, don't let the battery die. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Let's go."

* * *

><p>The car was not the battered green two-door, older than Elizabeth, that they kept running with duct tape and many weekend hours with downloaded repair manuals. This was an anonymous rental sedan, without rust spots on the doors or holes in the upholstery, which started on the first try.<p>

Elizabeth decided that she didn't like it at all.

When she mentioned this to her mom, she got the answer, "Well, you won't have to put up with it for long. We'll switch cars at least a few times." They merged onto the highway. A black SUV merged just behind them, then gunned the engine and zipped around them. Her mom relaxed.

Elizabeth's brain was stuck back at the highway sign they'd passed. I-85 South, which went all the way to Montgomery, Alabama before it merged with I-65, which itself ran down to Mobile and into I-10, which one could take to either Jacksonville, Florida or Santa Monica, California.

Washington, D.C. was nowhere on those highways.

They had to evade pursuers, she remembered. Doubtless in a few hours, they would turn north again, or east, taking a back road cross-country to pick up one of the highways that led into the capital. Route 66, or I-95, or even I-83 if they went far north and swung around again.

Watching the country roll by got old fast. Elizabeth turned away from the window. "_Maman, j'ai une idée."_

Her mom glanced over at her. _"Nous de la France maintenant?"_

_"Mais ouais_," she said happily.

"Mmm. _Interressant. Deux problèmes,_"her mom said. "One, Doyle knows I'm fluent in French. And there's just not that many native French speakers in the South, once you leave Louisiana."

Elizabeth frowned. "_Et l'autre?"_

Her mom pointed at her own knee. "I'm wearing pink sweatpants. No Frenchwoman would be caught dead in pink sweatpants."

She slid down in her seat, pouting slightly. She liked French. It was grown-up and sophisticated, and she was almost fluent now. Her mom was, and so was Julia Child.

Her mom patted her knee. "It was a good thought, _ma puce._ Just not right for the moment."

She squinted. "My flea? Mom, I swear you make these up. Nobody calls their kid a flea."

"In France they do."

"I don't believe you."

"They get sillier." Her mom shifted, settling back into her seat. "I used to know a little boy whose, ah, nanny called him _mon poulet._"

"My chicken? For real?"

"Absolutely for real. His dad hated it. He had this thing about his son being tough and manly." She rolled her eyes. "So around him, she called his son_ mon grand_ or _mon loup._"

My big boy, Elizabeth translated mentally. My wolf. Tough, manly names.

"But when he wasn't . . ."

"_Mon poulet_," she said, grinning.

"My little chicken," her mom said.

She tilted her head. "When was this?"

"Hmm? Oh. Years ago. Years."

"Who was he? The little boy?"

Her mother flicked on her turn signal to pass a slow-moving semi. "Just a little boy I happened to know. Watch the mirrors, will you?"

Hours passed. They listened to the radio, talked to each other about TV or the things that passed outside the window, and tried to pretend that they weren't hyper-attuned to every car that stayed in their lane for too many miles, or took just a little too long to pass them.

Elizabeth thought about reading, but she couldn't even think about concentrating right now, when every internal organ was tied in knots of nervousness. So her tablet stayed in her bag.

When they hit Montgomery, they hit rush hour, too. Elizabeth pulled her hoodie up and slid down as if asleep. They crept along, and she listened to her mom swear under her breath in Arabic whenever they had to stop completely. She watched the interchange sign for I-65 approach with glacial majesty. They would turn north, she told herself. Trace a wide circle around Atlanta, then head east. To Dad.

They turned south. She sat up. "Mom?"

"Yes?" Her voice was clipped. In one of those weird traffic things, it suddenly cleared out, and her mom hit the gas so hard that Elizabeth lurched in her seat.

"Are we waiting for I-10 to turn east?"

"We're not going east."

Her stomach went cold. "Where are we going?"

"Eventually? Minneapolis."

"But what about Dad?"

"What about your dad?"

"He'll be - he's going to think - "

Her mom pressed her lips together, drawing in her breath through her nose. "I know what he'll think. I can't help that."

Elizabeth's mouth fell open. She stared at her mom.

"Honey, your dad always knew what would have to happen if Doyle found us. I was very clear with him that we'd disappear. Even from him." She looked over. "And I was clear with you."

"But - "

"Maybe, in a couple of years, if we're safe enough, we can contact him again."

"Years?" Her voice shot up the scale into a screech. Years without emailing her dad? Years without hearing about his day, telling him about hers, sending each other silly, nerdy things they found on the Internet?

She'd already lost eleven years with him. She'd only seen her father's face, heard his voice, felt his arms around her, once in her entire life.

"Mom, please - "

Her mom stared straight ahead, her jaw set. "This is not a game, Elizabeth. This is our lives. He'll understand."

"I don't."

"Yeah, well, I'm the mom in this car and it's my call to make. And we're going to Minneapolis."

* * *

><p>(AN) Translation of Emily and Elizabeth's conversation in French:

"Mom, I have an idea."

"Are we from France now?"

"Yes!"

"Mmm. Interesting. Two problems." (English)

"And the other?"


	9. Chapter 8

(A/N) Whee! Thank you to the kind, kind person(s) who nominated War Crimes for a Profiler's Choice award in two categories. I was just hoping for the Best AU Fic, but the unexpected Best Team/Case Fic nom really made my day. Thank you again!

* * *

><p><em>I had a nightmare last night that Doyle had found you. In the dream, all I knew was that your emails had stopped coming, but some other part of me knew without a doubt that he had killed you both. I woke up gasping for air, then lunged for the computer.<em>

_Luckily Elizabeth sent me something late last night, and you'd also written about her plans for her birthday. I read both emails over and over, thinking, "They're fine. They're fine." But as I sat there, I realized: It could happen. Just like that. _

_I know this is a promise you might not be able to fulfill. But I'm asking you to make it anyway. If you do have to disappear, please, find a way to let me know you're safe. At least that much._

* * *

><p>Close to midnight, they checked into a motel. Although she'd slept in the car, Elizabeth was so still tired she fell asleep with the light still on, expecting to open her eyes only to the morning.<p>

But she kept waking up in the middle of night. She lay in the dark, listening to her mom's steady breathing and the asthmatic wheeze of the motel's heater. Every time, she got angry all over again, thinking of all the things she'd left behind in Atlanta. No more Annie, no more Master Tom. Her purple belt. She had _worked_ for that rank. No more Professor Zondervan's class or Ophelia. No more Dad.

She kept coming back to that. No more Dad. The rest of it had always been temporary, part of her cover as Elizabeth Brewster, sort-of-normal girl, but losing Dad -

When she did manage to sleep, she dreamed she was a puzzle that had fallen off a table and scattered into pieces all over the floor.

The fourth or fifth time she woke up, it was to her mom's voice. She scowled and burrowed deeper into her nest of blankets, but it didn't do much to muffle her words.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that for months. But it won't work now. Doyle knows about her. He sent someone to her school. How long do you think it would take him to put the pieces together if a thirteen-year-old mystery girl showed up on Spencer Reid's doorstep?" Pause. "What? Yes, I'm aware that's an option, too. I don't want to take it until there's no other choice." Pause. "Because I know what foster care can be like. She's thirteen years old and she needs to be with at least one of her parents. I know that. Yes. But I'm telling you, that's hanging off the bottom of my list."

Another pause. "No. No, she didn't contact him. The last he heard from us was the emails Monday night, and that was just the usual stuff. I know you've got the passwords and encryption keys just like Nancy did. You can read 'em if you want. Go ahead."

Elizabeth's mouth fell open. Mrs. Barville had been reading her emails?

"You changed them already? Great. No, it's fine. We weren't going to use them again anyway."

Her mom didn't sound fine, Elizabeth thought. She sounded like she was gritting her teeth.

"Look, could you do something for me, though? Get him a message. Tell him we're safe. What? I'm not saying you should send him our GPS coordinates. I just need him to know we're okay. The way we email, he's going to know something's wrong by tonight. All I'm asking is for you to let him know - You don't have to use your name. Just sign in as me and send an email. One line. Maybe two. 'We're safe and don't look for us.' That's it."

She made an exasperated noise. "Yes. I know. But this is his daughter, okay? He's had so many people just up and leave him, including me, that he deserves to - What? My God, no. Shit, I'd suspect Mother Theresa of betraying us before Spencer Reid, and she's _dead._ Why would he do something like that to - Well, I know him, and you don't. That's the last - Yeah? Well, fuck you, then, Malcolm."

A clatter, then silence.

Elizabeth closed her eyes abruptly and concentrated on making her breathing slow and sleepy. She expected her mom to come over by the bed, or start getting dressed. She wasn't prepared to hear the muffled gulps and choked-off gasps.

She sat up in bed, the covers falling away. "Mama?"

Thin dawn light trickled through the curtains. Her mom, standing at the bureau with her hands braced on the edge, went still. She ducked her head, trying to wipe her eyes surreptitiously, but the mirror bounced her dim reflection back.

"Sorry, baby," she said, back still turned. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," Elizabeth said. "Who was that?"

Her mom sighed and turned. "Our new handler." Her eyes were a little wet around the edges, but she looked calm. Most people would have been fooled.

"Already?"

"There's always a backup."

Elizabeth drew her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. "Is he still in Atlanta?"

"He's going to meet us in Minneapolis."

"Does he know about Dad?"

Her mom sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands through her hair. "He has our full dossiers. And I've talked to him a few times before."

Elizabeth bit her lower lip. "Do you trust him?"

Her mom shot her a sidelong look. "We've got to trust somebody, honey."

"I do," she said. "I trust Dad."

Her mom looked away. "_Devochka," _she said softly, "it's not that I don't. But going to your dad will put him in danger too."

"He'd be okay with that. For us."

"I wouldn't." She tapped Elizabeth's foot under the covers. "Since you're awake anyway, hop in the shower. I want to hit the road in half an hour."

* * *

><p>They drove through the morning, eating greasy breakfast burritos from a diner next to the motel. Around noon, they parked the car in a mall parking lot, ate in the food court, and then left by another entrance and walked another mile to rent a different car.<p>

Elizabeth felt queasy from a combination of poor sleep, fried food, and her lingering anger at her mom. The sharp edge of it had dulled after hearing her cry that morning, but the core remained, a hard knot under her breastbone.

They took a twisty route north, doubling back every so often, hopping off the freeway to take a back road cross-country to another freeway, which they would take south for a little bit before swinging up and around to head back in the other direction. If she hadn't memorized the entire interstate highway system when she was nine, Elizabeth wouldn't have had any idea where they were.

She tried to sleep, but only managed a light doze. She tried to read a falling-apart paperback that had been on a bookshelf in the diner, but it was awful. Something about an incredibly boring girl who was in love with sparkly vampires. She had _Dracula_ on her reader, along with fifty-four other works of fiction and seventy-five of nonfiction. But she didn't dare take it out, because she knew that her mom would start lecturing on how the machine could be traced back to her and she might even make her throw it out somewhere. The reader her dad had gotten her, with the books he'd sent her, even though he was totally stuck in the Middle Ages and only read paper books.

She satisfied herself with using her phone to download seven or eight books from the Project Gutenberg website. Her mom said, "Jesus, Libs, there's only so much credit on that!"

"They're text files," she shot back. "And besides, it's this or the sparkly vampires."

Her mom shut her mouth with a click and continued driving.

Reading on the tiny phone was slow and frustrating, but it beat sitting in silence or watching the traffic move around them. At least twice, her mom took an off-ramp that Elizabeth wasn't expecting. She lost count of the number of times they changed lanes sharply, or pulled into a rest stop for ten minutes, watching cars whiz past, until her mom relaxed and pulled out again.

They were somewhere just south of Chicago by dusk. Elizabeth wasn't really hungry, and she could tell by the desultory way her mom suggested stopping for dinner that she wasn't either. But she wanted out of the car, so she said she was.

The fluorescent interior of the fast-food restaurant was packed with people. They stood in stony silence in line, until Elizabeth spotted an open table. She told her mom what she wanted and ran for it, beating a couple of college students toting laptops. They tried to crowd her out, but she set her chin and glared. They slouched off, calling her names. She stuck her tongue out at their backs.

The students routed, she spun lazily on the seat, watching the line move at a speed that glaciers would have considered kind of poky. She sighed and looked around.

A boy in a plaid jacket sat at the table next to her, clearly performing the same function of table-holding as she was. He was frowning over a jumble of wooden blocks. She tilted her head. "That's a star puzzle, isn't it?"

He looked up. "Yeah." He looked annoyed, but said, "I've almost got it," and picked up a piece.

"That won't work," she told him. "You have to start with that one." She pointed.

"How would you know?"

"Because we have one at home." Her stomach lurched. She'd never see it again.

He looked down his nose at her. "Just because you've looked at one doesn't mean you know how it goes together. Girls don't have the spatial skills that boys do."

Her mouth fell open. "What?"

It's a statistical fact," he said loftily. "It goes back to hunter-gatherer days. And this is a hard puzzle. I've been working on it for almost an hour, and I have a natural aptitude for puzzles like this. I'm going to be an engineer."

"Those statistics are drawn from highly problematic studies," she said, repeating what her dad had told her after some jerk in her geometry class last year had come out with the same specious reasoning. "And while some girls might have less spatial aptitude, for whatever reason, than some boys, it doesn't follow that all girls have less aptitude than all boys. I bet I could put that together in the time it takes you to count to ten."

He snorted out a laugh and shoved the blocks in her direction. "This I have to see."

She hovered her hand over the blocks. "Start counting."

"Wait, you want me to actually count?"

"I don't want you to claim I've defaulted on the terms of our agreement just because you didn't keep up your end of the bargain."

He started counting in a sing-song, mocking voice. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Si . . ." He trailed off, staring at the completed star that she put back on the table.

She smiled sweetly at him. He returned a look that should have peeled the skin off her bones.

"Hey, Kieran, buddy! You solved it!" A man in a wrinkled suit and a long brownish peacoat sat down with a tray of hamburgers and fries.

Kieran looked mulish, but muttered, "No, _she_ did."

Kieran's dad looked at her with interest. "No kidding? He's been bashing his brains against that thing all afternoon."

"I've done star puzzles before," she said. "The first time when I was five."

Kieran went brick-red and glared harder.

His dad ruffled his hair. "So, pull it apart and try again, kiddo. Were you watching what she did?"

"No," he muttered.

"If you start with this piece, it works better," she offered.

Kieran's dad looked at her more closely. "You look familiar. You from around here?"

"No," she said, then realized the word had popped out just a shade too quickly. She tried to smile. "We're just passing through."

"And, ah, who's we, sweetie?"

"Her mother and her," Elizabeth's mom said behind him. "Can I help you?"

He turned and looked up at her mom, taking in the frizzy blond hair, the big earrings, and the pink tracksuit. He gave her a slightly condescending smile. "Just making conversation. She said you were on the road. From where?"

"Nashville," her mom said coolly. The South had entered her voice - not thick and syrupy, but subtle. A certain softness on the consonants, a slightly different pronunciation of the vowels. "Coming up to visit my momma for her seventieth birthday."

"That so?" Kieran's dad said. He turned back to Elizabeth, and she spotted a gun harness under his suit coat. Her stomach went cold.

He smiled at her. It looked like it was supposed to be light and reassuring. "You from Tennessee, honey?"

"Just said it, didn't I?" her mom said sharply.

He didn't look at her. "If you don't mind, I'd like her to answer."

"Yeah," Elizabeth said, clearing her throat. "We're from Nashville." She left her accent the way it was. She'd been talking to them too long to add it now.

He pushed his coat back, and she went rigid all over, waiting for him to draw his gun. But then she saw him tap the gold shield on his belt. He was a cop. A detective, or a lieutenant.

But Doyle had gotten to Officer Waites in Atlanta.

He mouthed silently, _I can help you_.

She gave him a puzzled look.

He frowned at her and said in a prompting sort of voice, "And this is your mom?"

She felt like she was navigating a tightrope over shark-infested waters. "Uh-huh."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic about that fact."

She had to say something that a regular kid would say, one who was just traveling with her mom to her grandma's house. "Well, uh, she won't let me get a nose ring."

Her mom picked up the cue, letting out a gusty sigh. "Baby, I have told you and told you, those things just aren't ladylike." She held out the cardboard drink holder she carried. "Here, take this for me, would you? I got a call from your Uncle Derek while I was in line. Grammy's getting tired, but she really wants to see us when we get in tonight, so we're going to hop back on the road." She turned a frosty gaze back on the cop. "That's if you're quite done interrogating a twelve-year-old."

Elizabeth was already on her feet. "Bye," she said to Kieran, and turned to weave through the crowded restaurant with her mom.

"Slowly," her mother murmured. "Casual." She raised her voice, clearly meaning to be heard by Kieran and his dad. "Some people are _so nosy _- honestly, honey, you need to be careful about strange men, especially when you're by yourself - " The door of the restaurant _thwooped _closed behind them. "Walk," her mom said when Elizabeth jolted forward. "_Walk."_

They got in the car and pulled out. Elizabeth glanced back into the brightly lit interior of the restaurant. "He's checking something on his phone," she said. "He's looking at us."

"Fuck," her mother said. "We should've taken the drive-through."

"I'm sorry," she said in a shaking voice. "I called attention to us - I wasn't thinking - "

Her mom reached over to clasp her hand. "It's done, honey. We just have to figure out how bad the fallout's going to be. He was a cop, wasn't he? He had that look."

"Yeah. He tried to tell me something. Like, 'I can help you.' Do you think he's dirty?"

"Maybe. But - " She frowned. "Get online. Check the CNN page for Atlanta."

While her mom wended her way through neighborhoods, avoiding main streets, Elizabeth waited for the Internet to trickle over the phone lines, gnawing at her lip. She scrolled past national headlines and found her own face looking out from the screen. "Oh, my God!"

"What?"

"I'm on the front page."

"What?"

She scrolled through the story. "Oh, my God. The cop, the one who came for me - Mom, he's dead. Somebody shot him. And they don't know where I am and they're looking for me because I went with him and that was the last anyone saw of me and they think I'm in danger now too - "

Her mom swore again.


	10. Chapter 9

_Thursday, 2:01 pm_

"Just so you know," Reid said gently, "Detective James wasn't dirty. Kieran's dad. He's a good cop, and he was genuinely concerned."

His daughter looked up at him. "How do you know?"

"I talked to him for half an hour this morning. I also had Garcia look into his financials."

"Hey!" Garcia said, mouth falling open. "You told me that was for - "

"An investigation," he said. "I've been working on this all night, over the phone with Atlanta. I think the first time I took a deep breath in the past day and a half was when I hung up with James."

Hotch's brows lowered. Reid felt himself flush and knew they were going to have a talk later about why he hadn't told everyone all of this last night.

He looked back at Elizabeth and felt his heart tremble again at seeing her there. What little sleep he'd snatched the night before had been swamped with dreams of seeing her on a cold steel slab, or a crime-scene photo. "You weren't in Atlanta, I knew that much, and if you were making your way to DC, I needed to be here for you. The last time I wanted to get on a plane so badly, and had to stop myself, was when you contracted appendicitis over Christmas. At least after I talked to him, I knew you and your mom were alive as of six o'clock last night."

Chevalier stirred. "Even if James wasn't dirty, somebody in his house was. There was a flurry of movement among Doyle's known associates in Chicago last night. Brief, over by this morning, and nothing to show for it, so we dismissed it. But if you'd gone with Detective James, or Chicago PD had succeeded in picking you up, I imagine that you'd be in a very different place right now."

Elizabeth shivered. "We didn't," she said. "We got away. But we weren't going to come here."

* * *

><p><em>She has three tiny scars on her belly and lots of drugs. Strong drugs. It's almost too bad you would never take any painkillers for your knee that time you got shot, because it would have been falling-on-my-ass funny, if your daughter under the influence is any indication.<em>

_The nurse asked me if her daddy was going to come, because Libs kept asking for you. I had to say that you couldn't. She gave me such a look that I wanted to kick her teeth in. How dare she think of you that way. She doesn't know you or me, she barely knows Elizabeth, and it doesn't matter what she thinks at all, but how dare she think that you're some kind of deadbeat who won't stir his stumps to see his kid when she gets an emergency appendectomy._

_I know I was harsh on the phone. I had to be. We just couldn't risk it. But at the same time, I kept arguing because hearing your voice was so comforting. I've spent so many years being worried alone that it seemed like a luxury being worried with another person, even when you're yelling at that other person not to come see their own daughter in the hospital. Even when I wanted to stop and say, "You know what? Never mind what I just said. Come here. Plane, train, automobile, come as fast as you can. I want you with me."_

_I can say that now that Elizabeth is out of the hospital and back on her feet. I couldn't let myself say it then._

_I'm so tired of this. I'm tired of having to push you away when you want to be there for us. I'm tired of being afraid. And as I look at those words on the screen, I realized I've never said them before, but it's true. You probably already knew, but I want to say them again. I'm afraid. _

* * *

><p><em>Wednesday, 6:17 pm<em>

"It's me," her mom said into the phone. "My kid is on the news. We almost got picked up by Chicago PD. What the hell, Malcolm? Call me back." She disconnected, frowning. "I don't know why we didn't hear it from him."

"Is it so bad, really?" Elizabeth asked.

They'd parked the car behind a boarded-up store while her mom called the new handler and Elizabeth tried to convince her stomach to accept a few cold french fries. Her stomach was not cooperative.

"Yeah, it is," her mom said, rooting through her bag and pulling out her gun. It gleamed cold black in the dim light.

Elizabeth eyed it and swallowed. "I don't get it," she said. "Why? Couldn't we just turn ourselves in and tell them - "

"What? We're on the run from an international criminal?" Her mom loaded the gun with a heavy _chunk _and slid it into the open side pocket of her bag, where she could grab it easily.

"It's the truth."

"No, honey, this is bad. Before, we only had Doyle's people looking for us. Now, your face is in every police station from here to Florida. Do you know how many eyes that is? And if someone does bring us in, even one of the good guys, all it takes is one dirty cop."

"Are you sure you're not being paranoid?"

Instead of getting mad, her mom explained, "Doyle particularly liked to corrupt law enforcement. Blackmail, bribery, sending one of his own into training. He used to say one spy was worth fifty foot soldiers. One phone call." She shook her head and repeated, "This is bad. We need to get out of this city." She got out of the front seat and into the back where there was more room. "Time for Sally and Jean to disappear, honey."

"Who're you going to be now?"

"Angela Chernekov." Her mom dug out a grey, shoulder-length wig.

"Oh, okay." Elizabeth dumped the fast-food bag with relief and started pulling Katie Chernekov's clothes out of her own bag. Katie was kind of girly and fluffy, not Elizabeth's favorite, but she'd do.

But her mom said, "Honey, I think we have to go more drastic with your new look."

Elizabeth twisted around, frowning at her mom. "What do you mean?"

Her mom held up a pair of scissors.

Elizabeth's hand jumped protectively to her hair. "Mom, no!"

* * *

><p>"He called me <em>son,<em>" Elizabeth groused as they climbed into the car they'd just rented. "I hate this."

In a protracted and bitter argument, her mom had dragged out the Amber Alert, the fact that police would be looking for a woman and a girl, not a woman and a boy, that short hair would be easier to put under a wig if they had to change out yet again. Faced with such logic, Elizabeth's only defense was that she'd been growing out her hair for the past five years and she really _liked_ it long, and she didn't _want_ to be a boy.

Her mom had won. Elizabeth now looked like a puffball dandelion, because everything but a few inches of her hair was shoved into the fast-food bag and buried in a streetside trash can somewhere in the mile between the boarded-up store where they'd left the last car and right here, where they were getting their next one.

The remainder of her disguise as "Kurt Chernekov" consisted of her loosest jeans and a blue t-shirt out of her mom's bag. It was depressing baggy on Elizabeth. The words on the front cheered her up slightly, however: "Also, I can kill you with my brain."

If she had to be a boy, she could at least be a boy with good taste in obscure cult television.

She'd been a little nervous about walking into the rental-car place. She'd tried to remember everything she'd ever observed about boys, tried lowering her voice and loosening her walk. In her most secret heart, she'd sort of hoped she would at least get a funny look, a double-take, and she'd have to say something about sports or farting to convince him that she was a boy.

But the rental-car guy had barely given her a second glance, and he'd told her mom, "You and your son have a nice night," as they were walking out.

Why?

Because she had short hair and all the feminine curves of a two-by-four.

"People see what they expect to see," her mom said. "For Christ's sake, Libs, give it a rest. What's with the vanity all of a sudden?"

Because it was easier to be bratty and pouty right now. Because she was scared and didn't want to be. "Gender identity disorder can be debilitating to a young girl's emotional well-being," she said.

"Given your vocal dislike of this particular cover, it's my learned opinion that we don't need to worry one bit about gender identity disorder in your case." At a stoplight, her mom reached over and ruffled her hair. "Libs, it'll grow, okay?"

She ducked out from under her mom's hand, fussily smoothing her hair down. It sprang up again, sticking out in several directions. "Only about an inch per month. At that rate -"

"At that rate, you're gonna drive me crazy in short order."

"I don't have to be a boy forever, do I?'

They swung onto the interstate. Her mom hit the gas, hard. "No, just until we get to Minneapolis."

"Good."

"Then we'll take on our new identities."

Elizabeth's head swiveled toward her mom. "What do you mean?"

"That's what our handler is working on. Setting up new identities for us. New names, new backgrounds. Everything." She frowned and glanced down at her phone, sitting in the cup holder. It hadn't rung.

"What's my name going to be?"

"I don't know. He's setting that up."

She chewed her lip. "Can it at least be Emily Elizabeth?"

"Honey, that's the first combo Doyle's gonna check. Ditto for Nora, Noreen, Lizzie, Beth, Libby, Emilia, Lizbet, and any other permutation of either of our current names. We have to be totally new people." Her mom glanced over at her. "I know you thought of this. You're just like your dad. You think everything to death, and then dig it up again for another go."

"Yeah," she muttered. "But - "

"And you have no problem being Violet or Jean or anybody else in your arsenal of disguises. You made up entire histories for them."

"That's different," she said. "That's . . . temporary."

She could play any one of the girls she'd made up, knowing she was still Elizabeth Emily. She might not know exactly what her last name should be - Brewster? Prentiss? Reid? - but her name was her very own. More than that, it was a tether that anchored her to roots she'd never had. Her grandma's name and her mom's real name. Without it, she might float away.

"You're still you. Just a different name. And it's not forever."

"Until when, then?"

Her mom didn't answer.

Elizabeth let out her breath in a frustrated wheeze. She dug out her phone, intending to distract herself with one of the books she'd downloaded. When it turned on, the CNN page came up again. Her face was still in the top screen, but bumped down by new stories. She started to close the browser, then paused, looking at one of the new top stories. The face was very, very vaguely familiar. "Mom?"

"Mm?"

"What's our new handler's name? Malcolm something, right?"

"John Malcolm."

"Did I ever meet him?"

"I think he might have stopped by the house a few years back. I probably told you he was someone from work. Why?"

"Pull over to the shoulder, Mom."

Her mom opened her mouth, then looked over at her. She closed her mouth and pulled over. Elizabeth handed her the phone, and watched as her mom squinted at the tiny screen to read the story about the businessman who'd been mugged and beaten to death in the Atlanta airport garage.

Her mom rested the phone against the wheel for a moment. Then she dug into her pocket, brought out her own phone, and popped the SIM cards out of both. Opening the car door, she dropped the tiny cards to the tarmac and stomped them, hard, then got out of the car and flung both the empty, useless cases into the water-filled ditch by the side of the road.

Elizabeth sat frozen until her mom climbed back in the car.

"Well. Minneapolis is out, then."

"Our phones - "

"I called him. Twice. We'll get replacements."

"You think he told them - "

"I don't know." She tried to turn the key again, but couldn't grasp it. She let her hands fall to her lap.

"What do we do now?"

Her mom stared out the window. "Get back on the road."

"To where?"

She thought for a moment. "Phoenix."

"Phoenix?"

"Not the city itself. One of the suburbs, where everybody's from somewhere else."

"No," Elizabeth said.

"Nice weather, low cost of living, desert's pretty."

"Mom, I don't want to go to Phoenix."

Her mom turned on her. "What do you suggest then?" She held up a hand. "Wait, no. Don't tell me. Washington, D.C."

"Yeah."

"Two of our handlers are dead in as many days, Libs. Clearly, somebody in D.C. is _not_ our friend."

"But Dad is - "

"I don't want to hear one more word about your dad! We're going west. Now."

Elizabeth threw open the car door and jumped out into the ditch. Her shoes squelched into the water and flooded immediately. "No!"

"Get back in the car."

She folded her arms. "No."

Her mom got out too, with a thunderous look on her face. "You're not too big for me to pick up, still."

"I'm almost as tall as you are!" Elizabeth yelled.

"But you're about a hundred pounds soaking wet, and I am _pissed off._"

Elizabeth scrambled backwards, almost falling on her butt. "What's my name going to be?"

Her mom stopped dead in the road. "What?"

"In Phoenix. What's my name going to be?"

"I don't know. Just get in the car, would you? This isn't exactly low profile here - "

"Just not Elizabeth Emily, right? Anything but Elizabeth Emily."

"I so do not need this from you right now." Her mom started forward again.

Elizabeth threw out her hands like a traffic cop. "You remember, when I first found out you'd been lying to me all my life, I asked you if everything about me was fake."

It gave her mom pause. She stood halfway in one of the headlights' beams, her shadow stretching long and thin down the blacktop. "I remember."

"You said, 'Your last name is made up, but you are Elizabeth Emily. That's what's real. That's always what's real.' Remember?"

"I said two other things you left out. I know you remember them. Tell me what they were."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "You said, 'I'm your mother, and I love you.'"

Her mom nodded. "No matter what your name is, I'm your mother and I love you."

"It's not enough, Mom."

Her mom flinched, and then Elizabeth realized how awful her own words sounded. For a split second, her rage ebbed, replaced by a desperate desire to fling herself into her mom's arms and cry out that she didn't mean it, she couldn't mean it -

She clenched her fists and kept going. "Everything is gone. My home, my friends, my dad, my hair, my name . . . Mom, I was about to graduate. I was going to go to college."

"You can still do all of that in Phoenix."

"Not now. I can't just move in and graduate in three months, not without school records, and there are no school records for whoever I'm gonna be, are there?"

"You're thirteen. This is not your last chance to fucking _graduate,_ Elizabeth."

"But I have to wait. And what happens if he finds us again? We take off running? Again?"

"Yes."

"So," she said. "This is gonna be my life now? Running away? Hiding all the time? Being scared, all the time?"

"Libs - "

"Don't call me that. You'll have to change it anyway. My name. My birthday. Everything, just like you did. When do I get to be myself again, huh, Mom? When I turn eighteen? When Doyle dies? When you die? When _I_ die?"

"You're being melodramatic. I'm not exactly doing this for shits and giggles, you know. This is not - "

"A game, I know," she snapped back. "You've been telling me that for one year, five months, three weeks, and two days. You've been telling me that we have to be safe and careful and it stinks, Mom_._ My own dad, I've only seen him in person for three hours, and I'll probably never talk to him again. My own grandma that you named me after, she doesn't even know I exist, and the same for all those people in DC that are so, so special to you, Penelope and J.J. and Hotch, they don't even know I exist and they never will. I'll go back to stupid high school classes and try to graduate and then something will happen and we'll run again and over and over and over until I just give up on graduating and maybe get my GED instead and work at Wal-Mart like you did because it's _safe_ and this is my life? This is what you want for me?"

She ran out of words and stood gulping cold air. The breeze fluttered her mutilated hair and chilled the tears tracking down her face.

Her mom stared at her for several seconds. Then she slowly sat down on the bumper, looking away down the road.

Elizabeth crept closer, climbing out of the ditch to perch on the very edge of the bumper, too. "Mom," she said in a very small voice. "I'm just . . . I'm so tired of being afraid."

Her mom looked over at her, touching one gentle finger to a lock that had fallen into her eyes. "I know," she said, and sighed deeply. "Get in the car, Libs."

She got to her feet, walked around the hood, and climbed into the driver's side. Her door slammed like the knell of doom.

Elizabeth sagged where she sat. Her feet, soaked by ditch water, started to tingle with cold.

Her mother's voice floated out the passenger-side door, still hanging open. "I said, get in the car."

"No," she said, knowing it was pointless, but unwilling to make it one bit easier than she had to.

"You want to walk to D.C?"

Elizabeth jumped up and spun around at the same time. "Mom?"

Through the windshield, her mom's face was white and drawn. "For the third time, Elizabeth Emily, get in the car. Before I change my mind."

* * *

><p>While Elizabeth was so happy she wanted to sing and dance, it only took her half a mile to realize that her mom was the exact opposite. She stared at the road, her mouth flat, her hands locked on the wheel. Elizabeth's own elation began to ebb.<p>

She thought resentfully, _She looks like the world is ending. Why is it so bad, to be going back to Dad and all her friends?_

She was about to say that when her mom stirred. "Libs, I need to be clear about this. We're taking a hell of a gamble."

"Uh-huh."

"Don't uh-huh. We're heading somewhere that Doyle's been watching like a hawk for years. I need you to listen to me."

"About what?"

"Everything. You do what I say, when I say it, whether you think it makes sense or not."

"Okay," she said.

"And I want you to promise me something."

"Okay," she said again.

"No. Don't just say that. I want your promise you'll do this."

"I don't even know what you want me to do, Mom."

Her mom spared her a brief glance. "If somebody takes me, you run for it."

"You mean leave you behind?"

"That's exactly what I mean. Promise me you'll do that."

"No! Mom, we're sticking together - "

"We're sticking together so I can protect you. If it gets to the point where I can't protect you, then you need to save yourself."

"I do have - "

"A purple belt, I know, honey, and under normal circumstances I have every faith in your ability to kick someone's kidneys out their nose. But these are not normal circumstances, and your first priority is to take care of yourself and get to your dad."

"But - "

"Promise me, Elizabeth Emily. Or we're going to Arizona after all."

"I promise, I promise!" she cried.

"Say it."

"I - " She gulped. The words tasted nasty in her mouth. "I promise I'll leave you behind if you get taken."

Her mom relaxed. "Thank you."

"But I still don't understand.

"He will target you," her mother said. "Because you're my daughter."

"And he wants to get you, I know."

"No. You don't get it. He will target you, because you are my daughter." She swallowed. "He wants to do the same thing to me that I did to him. He wants to destroy my child."

It seemed to trickle through Elizabeth's brain in pieces. "Doyle has kids?"

"He had a son. Declan Doyle was six."

A son? How could evil, homicidal criminals have a six-year-old son?

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "The little boy you knew?" It seemed like weeks, months since that conversation, instead of just a day. "_Mon poulet?" _

After a very long time, her mother nodded.

_Had_ a son, she'd said. Past tense, implying that such was no longer the case . . . and he blamed her mom . . . "Oh, Mom," she whispered. "What did you do?"


	11. Chapter 10

_No, I haven't told her about the Dilaudid. I don't know how I'm going to, either. But I'll have to, sometime. There are a lot of things Elizabeth never needs to know about me, but she deserves to know that._

_She deserves to know about Declan too. He's the reason why she grew up the way she did, the reason why she exists at all, because you never would have so much as kissed me, much less had intercourse with me in my backseat, if you hadn't been about to leave us because Doyle was chasing you down._

_Don't waste screen-space telling me that something might have happened between us even without Doyle. It hadn't yet. _

_I can tell that you still struggle with your actions and your choices. Emily, you did the right thing for the right reason. What happened afterwards was nothing you could have controlled. You have a hard time admitting that to yourself, too._

_Give her the chance to understand. She wants to._

* * *

><p><em>Fine. I'll tell her. But only when she needs to know. And that's my call.<em>

_And no, nothing had happened between us before that night at the movies. But there's something you haven't factored into your profile, Dr. Reid. Out of all the people in the world I could have called that night, I called you. Knowing I was going to leave, the thing I wanted most was a little more time with you._

_Put that oversized brain of yours to work and chew on that for awhile._

* * *

><p><em>Thursday, 2:06 pm<em>

J.J's hand clenched around the cup she still held. Her chamomile tea had gone stone-cold. _Oh, Emily,_ she thought. _What did you do?_

Hotch said in his stoniest way, "Elizabeth, we already know about Declan Doyle."

"You do?"

"Yes. It was in the briefing."

"Oh." Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully. "So, did it say where he went afterwards?"

Garcia made a little noise in her throat, a peep like a baby chick.

"There was no afterwards," Chevalier said.

"Aiden," Reid said.

Chevalier didn't seem to hear. "Declan Doyle is dead. He died in the basement of a Boston warehouse."

"No," she said. "He and his foster mom just looked dead. It was very convincing, Mom said. She made sure of it."

"I knew it," Garcia cried, pressing her hands to her face. "Emily never could have - I _knew_ it!"

J.J. couldn't stop herself. "What did Emily do with Declan?"

* * *

><p><em>Wednesday, 7:18 pm<em>

"I painted him and Louise with the best stage makeup I could find. I set the scene using real crime scene photos. There couldn't be the faintest doubt in anyone's mind that they were dead. Then I pointed my own gun at them, took pictures, and sent them into Interpol to add to the profile." In the green glow of the dashboard, she smiled a hard, grim little smile. "They wanted leverage, they got it."

"What about him? Declan? Where did he go?"

"I don't know. I put him on a plane with his foster mother and I never saw them again. On purpose. So that nobody could track my movements back to him. So he could have a real life."

"How did Doyle know it was you in the pictures?"

Her mom changed lanes to go around a slow-moving semi. "Honey, the law wasn't Doyle's only enemy. Declan was a closely guarded secret from the moment he was conceived. Very, very few people knew about him."

Elizabeth frowned. "How did you find out?"

"Doyle told me. Because he thought his future wife should know."

"You were engaged?" she squeaked. "How? I thought you were spying on him."

"That was how I spied on him, honey. It was my cover."

Elizabeth tried to digest that, trying to picture her mom pretending to be in love with somebody like Doyle, kissing him, doing more than kissing, maybe . . . Her brain revolted.

"Anyway, there weren't a lot of suspects, and none of them in Boston except me. Even if he didn't think I was the one holding the gun, he held me responsible."

Elizabeth tried to chew her thumbnail, but there wasn't enough of it left to get a good grip with her teeth. "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?"

"It's not exactly something I'm proud of, Libs."

"Why not?"

"I made him think his child was dead. Murdered. It was necessary. I'm not saying it wasn't. But I knew what it would do to him, and ever since I had you, I've understood much better how Doyle could chase me, hunt me for close to a quarter of a century. I can tell you every single time I thought your life was in danger, even for a second, because it's burned into my brain. And I made that fear come true for Doyle."

Her voice sounded strained and unhappy. Elizabeth cast around for something to say that would make her feel better.

"You know, Mom, he was a bad person. He didn't deserve to have a little boy. When you took Declan, you were just like Child Protective Services or something. Doyle probably hit him and stuff."

"Elizabeth. _Stop."_

She stopped.

Her mom let out a breath. "Look, not everything is that cut-and-dried. I don't know if you can understand."

Elizabeth's back stiffened. She hated it when people said that. Just because she was a kid. "So help me understand."

Her mom stared out the windshield. Elizabeth had just concluded that she wasn't going to say anything at all when she began to talk.

"Love is not the sole property of good people. It is possible for someone to peddle death all day long, then come home to hug his son and kiss the - the woman he loves." Her mom looked away from the road. "When I faked his death, I was protecting Declan. But I wasn't protecting him from his father. Ian Doyle loved his son, and he would have given him the world on a silver plate if he'd asked for it. What I was protecting Declan from was the world that surrounded his father, and all the ways that it could have destroyed an innocent little boy. But it broke Doyle into pieces, thinking his son was dead, and I'm not proud of causing anybody that kind of pain, no matter what else they've done. Do you understand?"

She looked straight ahead at the dashboard, gripping her knees. Her head felt like it was full of icebergs, bumping and crashing into each other, knocking pieces off into the sea and everything refusing to pull together into one simple idea. "No."

Her mom sighed. "Think about it. Just think about it."

* * *

><p>She did think about it, so hard that when she slept, Declan followed her into her dreams, a little boy painted with blood like an awful Halloween costume. She woke up several times and sat with her head resting against the chilly window, watching her mom's face in the glow of the dashboard lights, until her eyelids slid shut again.<p>

Very early in the morning, they dumped the car in Pittsburgh and caught the train east. They would go straight into D.C, assuming that they didn't need to take evasive maneuvers, and call Dad once they were in the city and somewhere safe where he could come get them _fast._

And then it would all be over. They'd be safe. All the hiding would be done.

This early, the train was half-empty and tomb-quiet. They found seats easily, and Elizabeth drooped into her mom's side, yawning. Her mom's arm came around her. "Go back to sleep, _devochka_," she said in Russian, part of their cover. "You'll need it."

She did.

Some time later, another stop woke her up again. Though she didn't feel sleepy, she did feel too lazy to move and sat with her cheek against her mom's shoulder, watching the early-morning world go by outside the window.

She couldn't stop thinking about Declan. He must be all grown up now, but when she tried to picture him, all she could see was a wide-eyed little boy. What was it like, being the son of an international criminal? Doyle had loved his son, Mom said. That didn't work, somehow. Could monsters love?

And if your dad was a monster, what did that make you?

Elizabeth played with her mom's fingers, tenderly stroking the torn-up nails. The one on her thumb had started seeping blood.

"Do you think Dad will be there?" she asked quietly, in Russian.

"Your dad has always been there for me."

Elizabeth nodded and settled in again, still thinking about Declan. He had been six. He hadn't seen his father in all those years. That was a long time. Three and two-thirds times more of his life had been spent without his dad than with him.

And yet . . .

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"You're always saying how much I resemble Dad. Do I really?"

"Honey, sometimes it blows my mind how much you're like your dad. Not just in looks."

"Even though I didn't grow up with him?"

"Even then." Her mom's fingers ran through the hair at her temple. "The two of you are kindred spirits."

Elizabeth laid her head against her mom's shoulder again, wondering if Declan and his dad were kindred spirits too. It gnawed at her so much that she finally had to say, "Mom, can you tell me more about Declan?"

Her mom shifted.

"I don't want to know anything about his dad," Elizabeth said quickly. "Just him. What was he like?"

"Just a regular little boy."

Elizabeth was quiet, watching her.

Her mom looked down. "Stop that."

Elizabeth raised her brows.

"I taught you that. Knock it off, Elizabeth Emily."

"What? I'm just sitting here," she said.

"You - " She looked out the window again, shaking her head. She was gonna crack soon. When you were quiet, people wanted to talk, to fill up the silence. Her mom had taught her that, and usually it didn't work on her, but she really wanted to talk about Declan Doyle.

"He had just turned six when his dad was arrested," her mom said finally. "You'd think he'd be the biggest spoiled brat in the universe, and sometimes he was, but he was also fearless. He would run up to people and start talking to them because he couldn't conceive that people wouldn't love him." She sighed. "It didn't help that he was adorable. Big blue eyes, these long platinum blond curls . . ." She rolled her eyes. "I told his dad once that he was going to get the snot kicked out of him at school for that hair, and his dad said, 'Good. It'll teach him to be a fighter.'"

"Really?"

"That was important to Doyle," her mom said. "He wanted Declan to be tough and strong. He was already preparing him to take over the family business. He made sure that Declan was bilingual from the cradle by hiring a half-French housekeeper to take care of him. He asked me to help Declan with his Italian, and he talked about getting a Chinese tutor."

Elizabeth cringed. She loved languages, and it disturbed her that she could have anything in common with Doyle. "Why?"

"Well, he was an international businessman. Whether your business is hotels or toys or weapons, it's a smart thing to be fluent in several languages."

"Was Declan afraid of his dad?"

"Afraid? Declan thought his dad hung the moon. He wanted to be just like him."

Elizabeth's mouth fell open. "How could he?"

"He didn't know," her mom said. "All he knew was that his dad adored him, gave him everything he wanted. He had no idea where it all came from. Not the slightest clue. Little kids are like that."

Elizabeth sighed, then shifted, wincing. Something had been jabbing her in the ribs since she woke up, but now it was getting really uncomfortable. Her mom noticed her squirming and said, "Sit up." When she did, her mom reached under her jacket and moved something to the small of her back.

"What was it?"

"My gun."

"Oh," Elizabeth said in a small voice. Usually, the gun lived under her mom's bed, in a safe. Even on this trip so far, it had been packed in a bag. But her mom was wearing it now.

She tried to think about other things, comforting things. "What do you think Dad's doing right now?"

"It's about seven o'clock," her mom said. "He's probably halfway through his second cup of coffee. Also, feeding the cat."

"Sergio," Elizabeth said.

"Yep, Sergio. Don't be put off if he's kind of shy when you meet him. He takes time warming up to people."

"He'll probably remember you, though."

"Honey, it's been fourteen years."

"No, he will. Cats have a very good sense of smell, and he was yours when he was a kitten."

"Okay, maybe he will," her mom said. "Anyway, Dad is feeding Sergio, and maybe he's doing some last-minute prepping for his lecture at Georgetown tonight. You remember, he's got those Thursday night lectures. He goes right from work."

"Do you think he'll take me?"

"To the lectures? Depends on the topic."

"I can always go to the library if the topic's too gory." The Georgetown library! It made her toes tingle.

"Right, there you go. The librarians will all get to know you in about three weeks. They already know your dad. The librarians at Georgetown, and also the ones at the public library branch around the corner from your dad's new place. You know he had you in mind when he moved, right?"

"No."

"Oh, yeah. He'd been at his old place for a couple of decades, at least, and he _hates_ change. But he knew it was too small for two people, especially with all his books and DVDs. That's why he went looking for a new place. He was hoping it would all be over soon, and he could be your dad every single day, not just over email." Her mom brushed her hair out of her eyes. "He can't wait for that, you know. He has so much he wants to share with you."

Elizabeth played with the zipper on her mother's jacket, telling herself that her parents had never been an official couple, just friends and colleagues who'd been together one impulsive time. So there was no reason to be worried that her mom was talking like it would just be Elizabeth and her dad. They would probably have an equal custody arrangement. "Do you think my grandma will be happy to meet me?"

"God, yes. Listen, don't be put off if she seems cold. She's not exactly demonstrative, but she's like Sergio. She takes a little while."

Elizabeth stared at her profile. "Mom - "

A computerized voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing the stop where they were switching to the D.C. area commuter rail. In between getting off the train and walking between platforms, Elizabeth tried to come up with the right words, but they slipped away.

Her mom gave her a granola bar for breakfast, but didn't pull out anything for herself. She strode along, bag over her shoulder, looking like another impatient traveler. She muttered in Russian, "Keep your eyes open, honey. Look for people who are looking at you. Most commuters don't make eye contact. If you see one, there'll be at least one other. They usually have partners."

Elizabeth nodded impatiently. She knew all this. They'd gone over it exhaustively. "Mom, I - "

"Jackpot," her mom said suddenly.

"What?"

"C'mon. Let's go. Now."

Elizabeth scrambled along after her, baffled. Then she saw what had gotten her mom so excited. It was a school group, all clustered on the platform where the commuter train would arrive. Kids around her age, parent chaperones, teachers. Large and chaotic.

Perfect.

"Probably going into D.C. to see the Smithsonian or something," her mom said.

They took up spots at the edge of the group and boarded with them. A teacher counted off at the doors. "Seventeen, eighteen - Oh, whoops, you're not ours, are you, buddy?"

"Sorry," Elizabeth mumbled, but the teacher had turned to the next kid in line. "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . ."

They found seats a few rows back from the end of the car. Elizabeth pulled her hoodie up, sliding down into its folds as the train started up.

After two more stops, she was torn between wanting out of the stupid train car if she had to climb out the window, and wanting to stay there forever. She felt distant from all these boisterous, confident kids, with nothing more serious on their minds than getting out of school for a day, but she still blended in, safe, just another kid in a crowd.

Her mom pretended to read a magazine, looking like just another faintly harassed parent who couldn't believe what they'd gotten suckered into.

Morning commuters boarded, took one look into the car of shrieking kids, and turned the other way. One man, fiddling with his cell phone, actually got halfway into the car before the noise level registered, and he turned around and came back, passing by Elizabeth. She accidentally glanced up. He looked away from his cell phone and smiled at her, warm and friendly. His eyes were a pretty light green.

She started to smile back, then looked away as if she hadn't seen him. Don't catch anyone's eye, her mother had said. She felt bad, because he looked like her fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Keating. She'd had an enormous crush on Mr. Keating, at least until he failed to adequately explain the Big Bang.

Just before they pulled into Union Station, her mom's hand slipped down and closed around hers. "Listen to me."

She was speaking quietly, in Russian, still pretending to read her magazine.

"Yes?"

"You are my brave girl. Remember that."

"Right."

"Whatever happens today, you will get through it."

Fear boiled up in her stomach. She had to swallow it back. "Nothing's going to happen, Mom. We'll be fine."

Her mom squeezed her hand and let it go. "Here," she said, sliding something into Elizabeth's jeans pocket. It felt like a hard roll of paper.

"What is it?"

"Backup plan. Always have a backup plan." The train lurched as it began to slow. People started getting up, gathering bags and jackets. "Okay, let's go."

Kids pushed and shoved, laughing at each other. Somebody knocked into her backpack, sending her staggering forward. Her hood slid down. She looked over her shoulder and realized that her mom was still stuck in the seat, blocked by a couple of moms trying to herd kids along. Her mom shook her head a little and waved her hand, urging her forward.

Okay. It was okay. They'd meet up on the platform.

Elizabeth crammed herself into the little lobby between cars, trying to edge her way closer to the doors. She squirmed, trying to nudge a boy aside. He elbowed her back, growling, "Dude. Quit it."

She shifted back a step, scowling. Now there was something poking her in the ribs, right where Mom's gun had been poking her all morning. She tried to edge forward, to push herself up next to the boy so she'd be at least the second person off when they opened, and a hand closed around her elbow.

"Ah-ah-ah, little girl. You're not going anywhere."

She froze, then turned her head to stare into a pair of light green eyes. The thing pressed harder into her side, cutting through her hoodie and shirt, the sharp tip digging a tiny bright spark of pain in her skin.

His pretty eyes were empty, like he was hollow. He smiled at her and under the rising chatter of the students, he said, "All I have to do is push."

He should have bad breath or something, she thought stupidly. Raging B.O. At the very least have missing teeth. A bad guy should _look_ like a bad guy.

Somehow, Elizabeth heard the muted click of a Glock being armed. Behind the man, her mom leaned forward, teeth bared, and breathed into his ear, "_And all I have to do is pull."_

The sharp point eased back as he released the knife. It slithered between their tightly packed bodies and clattered on the floor.

Elizabeth started to smile in relief, but her mom gave her head a tiny, tiny shake.

Partners. They always had partners. There was someone else around here, and Mom was going to . . . going to . . .

The doors hissed as they started to open. Her mother's lips shaped the words, _Go. Now._

Elizabeth lunged forward, shoving the boy aside. A chorus of shouts and shrieks rose up behind her, and she thought, _sorry, sorry, sorry_, but didn't turn to yell it because she needed all her breath for running, as hard and fast as she could down the platform, leaving her mother behind.


	12. Chapter 11

_No matter what, no matter how well I plan or how much I teach her, there may come a time when Elizabeth just has to throw everything out the window and wing it. Without me, without you, without anything but her instincts. I've tried to tell her this, but she likes plans, maps, structure, order. How do you teach winging it?_

* * *

><p>She ran mindlessly, weaving through midday travelers, wishing desperately that they'd arrived at rush hour so there were more places to hide, more people to hide behind. Her backpack thumped painfully on her back, off-balance because one strap was slipping down her arm, but she didn't stop to fix it, couldn't stop.<p>

_Mom!_

She scrambled up the stairs two steps, but the toe of her shoe caught the edge of the last step, and she went flying. Her backpack skidded across the cement. She heaved herself to her feet, turned to retrieve her backpack, and saw the green-eyed man lunging up the stairs after her.

She heaved her backpack into his path, saw his feet tangle in the straps, and didn't see anything more because she was running again.

Minutes or hours or years later, she turned a corner and ducked behind a column. One quick check showed her only ordinary commuters, chatting to each other or talking on their cell phones.

She'd lost him. Maybe only for a moment, but she could use it to catch her breath. She bent over, panting. Her knees and palms throbbed with pain. Sweat dampened her temple and rolled down her spine. She slid one hand inside her jacket, expecting to feel an enormous flapping rip from the knife, but her fingers swept across her ribs three times before she found the tiny hole in the cotton. The skin underneath stung hotly when she touched it. She pulled her hand out and saw a smudge of blood on her fingertips.

A great racking shudder started from her toes and went straight up to her scalp.

She kept seeing the man's eyes, so pretty to look at, nothing underneath. They'd been flat and dispassionate while he pressed his knife to her side. He didn't care that she was a kid. If Doyle had told him to just kill her, he would have stuck that knife between her ribs without bothering to warn her.

Chills swept over her body when she remembered him, fiddling with his cell phone.

_He'd taken her picture._

And then probably sent it to everyone else who was looking for her.

She had to change, now. But how? She'd dropped her bag. Her tablet. Her throat closed up for a moment, thinking of the tablet her dad had given her, but she gritted her teeth. Now was not the time.

She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out the hard little roll of paper. Just like she'd thought, it was a roll of bills. Without undoing it, she estimated five hundred dollars, enough money for clothes, a phone, and a hotel room if she needed it.

Her backup plan.

She zipped up her hoodie and took in deep breaths, reciting digits of pi in her head. She had to walk along like any other kid walking through Union Station. Running would attract attention. Running was for when you didn't care about avoiding notice because getting away took priority.

She waited for a clump of people to come along, then slipped out, inserting herself in the middle. She tucked her hands in her pockets, digging her chilly fingertips into her palms, and watched for mirrors or windows that would reflect the hallway behind her. There was a mall attached to Union Station. She could go there and -

A man came around the corner. Him.

Panic shot messages straight to her feet without stopping at her brain, and she burst out of the group, running again. Behind her, she heard the thud of his footsteps as he spotted her and gave chase.

_Stupid!_

Her thoughts scrambled like rabbits. She couldn't just keep running forever. He'd catch up. He had longer legs, more endurance, and probably partners.

What would her mom do? But she knew what her mom would do, because she'd done it, stuck a gun in the man's ribs and told Elizabeth to run, save herself. Elizabeth had no gun.

What would her dad do?

According to her mom's stories, he would have talked his way out of it, quiet and reasonable right up until the moment he convinced the bad guy to put down his own knife. That, too, was out of the question.

She shouldn't have to do this. She was just a kid. She . . .

She was a kid.

Nobody thought a kid could outthink them. Not Officer Waites in Atlanta, not superior Kieran in Chicago. Not this guy, who'd called her _little girl._ She had nothing but her brain, but her brain was a good one.

She was three months away from graduating high school, she was already doing math that impressed her professors, and most of all, she was the daughter of a spy and a federal agent who'd singly and together caught some of the country's most terrifying monsters. She, Elizabeth, could outthink this guy.

She rounded the corner and saw a crowd of teenage girls going into a bathroom. Bright, unlikely-colored hair, heavy makeup, torn jeans, bright t-shirts with anime characters, fat backpacks.

Extra clothes, possibly wigs, and girls just a little older than her. Girls like Ophelia, who might have little sisters or cousins and feel protective of a younger girl in trouble.

She dove for the bathroom door just as it swung shut. She leaned back against it, panting.

"_Perv,_" someone said.

She opened her eyes to see the crowd of girls staring at her, mean-eyed. She gasped, remembering her own disguise. "I-I'm a girl," she squeaked. "I promise."

"Prove it," said a pink-haired girl with a pierced eyebrow. She wore such dark lipstick that the rest of her face seemed to disappear behind it, like she was just a pair of lips.

"God, Cassie, quit being a bitch," said one with purple hair and a t-shirt that said _Samurai X_."She's like twelve. What's she going to do, pull down her pants?" She pushed through the other girls, her heavily lined eyes wide with concern. "What's wrong, kid? You look completely freaked."

"Th-there's a guy," she wheezed. "He's chasing me. He - "_ has a knife_, she thought, but even in her head it sounded incredibly unlikely, even though it was true. "He's creepy."

"Creepy, like, tried to touch you creepy?"

"Not yet, but I-I think he would."

Sympathy immediately swung her way. "Oh, ew!"

"We can call the cops."

"Don't be stupid, all they ever say is not to dress like a slut."

"Oh, my God, what if it's like that guy in Seattle last year? The one that, like, kidnapped girls and killed them and then, like, taxidermied them and put them in parks?"

"Oh! My dad - um, my dad told me about that guy." And helped catch him. "I don't think this is like that. He's just kind of nasty. I don't want the cops. Please, I just need a disguise and I can get away." She bit her lip, looking at the purple-haired girl. "I know it sounds really weird, but could I . . . could I maybe borrow a different shirt?"

"A shirt? Oh, sweetie, we can do better than that."

"Jenna, our train leaves in fifteen minutes," Cassie noted sourly, but she had already pulled out a makeup bag that wouldn't be out of place on a movie set.

"Please," Jenna said, opening her backpack and rummaging. "It's us. What do you think, ladies? Green? Or blue?"

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, a swarm of girls exited the bathroom, chattering loudly about the anime con they were headed to in Baltimore. Buried in the middle of the group, a purple-haired girl giggled to a tall, quiet girl with bright blue hair, a lip ring, and a shirt with a glittery heart on it. The blue-haired girl's eyes, from thick circles of eyeliner, flickered around the corridor. She tensed at the sight of a man, talking to an older woman and pointing at the restroom door, but he didn't look at her.<p>

"I think it's okay now," Elizabeth said in a low voice, once they'd walked through the whole corridor and turned a corner. "He didn't spot me. I'm going to get out of here."

Jenna squeezed her hand. "Want us to come with you?"

"No, catch your train," Elizabeth whispered back. "Thanks."

"Here," Jenna said, shoving a piece of paper into her hand. "My number. Call me when you get home safe. I have a sister your age, I'm gonna worry." She grinned brightly. "Besides, I need to give your shirt and your hoodie back." They were buried in Jenna's backpack.

"Okay," Elizabeth said, hoping she could.

"You sure your mom won't be pissed about us cutting up your jeans?"

Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away, hard. Aside from anything else, it would destroy all the eye makeup. "As long as I'm safe, she won't care about anything I did to my clothes."

"Wow, your mom's pretty cool."

Elizabeth nodded and managed to say, "She's the best."

"Okay. Good luck."

The girls peeled off toward the platform to the Baltimore train. For a moment, Elizabeth wanted to run after them, bury herself in their midst again. But she had to get out of this station. She lengthened her stride and soon found the mall. Somewhere in here, there had to be a place where she could buy a phone to call her dad. Once she had that, she could meet him anywhere.

Two cops were just walking out of a sandwich shop. One was preoccupied with getting his straw into his drink, but the other looked right at her, a faint curl on his lip. She knew this kind. They thought being a teenager was a crime and that everyone should be locked up on their twelfth birthday.

She ducked her head and looked away. Far, far down the hall of shops, she saw him. The green-eyed man.

He was coming straight towards her. He must have remembered the crowd of girls that left the bathroom, and realized she'd put herself in the middle of them, like a cuckoo egg in a nest.

She froze, feeling the walls close in around her. She had no options left. He knew her with short hair, he knew her with the wig. There was no clothes store near that she could duck into, not without him seeing. And if she went bolting away, the cops -

The cops. Could she use the cops?

But what if they were dirty? She couldn't be sure of that, but she knew what would happen to her if she fell into _his_ clutches.

Between the devil and deep blue sea, Elizabeth decided to gamble that she could swim.

She detoured toward an accessories shop directly in the cops' line of sight. Plastic tchotchkes, cheap diaries, lots of pink and purple. A normal thirteen-year-old's paradise. There was a carousel of cheap earrings, twirling by the front entrance. She reached out and scooped up a handful, all glitter and chains and oversize plastic gems, and shoved them into her jeans pocket.

For a moment, she thought they'd missed it. Then a hand landed on her shoulder. "And just what do we think we're doing?"

She almost collapsed from relief, but she had to play this out. They had to arrest her. She spun around. "Nothing!"

It was the teen-hating cop, of course. His nametag said _J. Cox. _"I saw you."

"Saw me what? I didn't do anything." But she pressed her hand to her pants pocket, as if trying to cover it up.

His gaze followed her hand, of course. "Empty out your pockets, kid."

"Do you have a search warrant?"

They were gathering a crowd. Crowds were great. She _loved_ crowds. The other cop had brought out a store employee, who looked alarmed and a little out of his depth.

"Just empty them."

Elizabeth sighed and rolled her eyes hugely, snotty teenager to the hilt. She shoved a hand in her pocket, and brought out the jewelry. Cox handed it off to the employee, who clutched it uncertainly.

"Look," he muttered, dropping a pair of green feather earrings, "she's just a kid, okay? Technically I guess we're supposed to press charges and shit, but c'mon, guys, that's like hours of paperwork and I've got a really hot date tonight, and I got the shit back. Can we just forget about it?"

No! No, he had to press charges, she had to get arrested, because she would be in police custody and safe and . . .

Cox narrowed his eyes at her. "What's in your other pocket?"

The money. She had all that money. What kind of teenager carried around all that money? They'd arrest her for sure.

"Nothing," she said shiftily.

"I see that lump in there. Don't think I don't. Bring it out."

Feigning reluctance, Elizabeth dug into her pocket and brought out the roll of money.

"Jesus," the second cop said.

"That's not from us," the employee said immediately. "We don't roll it up like that."

"It's mine," Elizabeth said. "My mom gave it to me." It sounded exactly like the kind of ridiculous story a teenage petty thief would come up with.

"Your mom gave you - " Cox eyeballed the roll. "About five hundred dollars?"

"Big allowance," Elizabeth said, as snotty as possible.

"Oh, for Chrissake, Bridget, what did you do?"

Her blood all turned to ice.

The second cop turned to the green-eyed man, who'd pushed through the gathering crowd. "Is this your kid?"

"No!" she yelped, taking a step back.

"Unfortunately," he said, glancing at the second cop's name badge. "Officer . . . Mallory. I'm so sorry about this. What did she do?" His voice was long-suffering, a typical father with an exasperating teenager.

"Got a little light-fingered around the display of earrings," Mallory said. "Not the first time?"

Cox said, "Sir, do you know anything about this?" He held out the roll of money.

"Bridget," the man said in a deeply disappointed voice. "You took that? I've been going crazy."

"I'm not Bridget, that's not his money, and he's not my dad!" she cried.

But the roll disappeared into his pocket. "I'm so sorry about this. Does the owner want to press charges?"

"No, it's fine," the shop employee babbled. "All good. Got it back, see?" He grinned a little maniacally and started putting earrings back onto the carousel.

"We can take her in anyway if you like," Cox said. "Scare her straight."

He held up his hands, all reasonableness. "No, no, that won't be necessary. Her mom and I will definitely be putting her on house arrest."

"He is not my dad!" Elizabeth cried again. "Ask for his identification."

Cox turned to her. "Let's get something straight here. I'm the cop, you're the trampy little shoplifter, and _I _tell _you _what to do."

She stuck out her chin. "My father is Dr. Spencer Reid, of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico. Unless that man can show you positive proof that he is Dr. Spencer Reid, I'm not going anywhere."

"The FBI?" Mallory looked narrow-eyed at the man. "Can I just see some I.D.?"

The man's eyes darted from one officer to the other, then the surrounding crowd. A few of them were muttering to each other, and looking sympathetically at Elizabeth. "I'd be happy, officers. But, uh, I left it in the car. Be right back." He backed off, then disappeared into the crowd.

Elizabeth's spine turned to spaghetti with relief, but she couldn't show that, not in front of all these people.

Someone in the crowd said, "Hey, did he still have the little girl's money?"

Mallory shook his head. "Nice going, Cox. Guy took off with five hundred dollars, we still have this kid on our hands, and now my damn sandwich is cold."

They both looked at Elizabeth. She looked back. "I get one phone call, right?"


	13. Chapter 12

So, after this week, I'm taking a break from my strictish weekly posting schedule. I do have this all mapped out in my head, but there's another non-writing project that's taking a lot of my time and energy right now. I'll work a little on it where I can, and hopefully be back to posting steadily after the first of the year. Thanks for your support, guys.

This chapter is dedicated to Fairytopia. Because I'm not a nice person.

* * *

><p><em>I've always known the truth, and here it is. She saved my life. <em>

_Living like this, braced for it all to fall down tomorrow, looking around every corner, it would have broken me a long time ago if she weren't here. It's not the sentimental, light-of-my-life, Mother's-Day-card shit, either. It's the everyday things. Tae kwon do lessons and overdue library books, whose turn is it to wash the dishes, when was the last time you cleaned under your bed, negotiations over allowance. It's all so simple and grounded that I could pretend for long stretches of time that I really was Nora Brewster, who'd never even heard of a criminal named Ian Doyle._

_You talk about what she deserves. That normal life, that's what she deserves. It was never really mine. But someday, somehow, it will be hers._

* * *

><p>"And then the police took me back to the station and called my dad." Elizabeth fussed with a loose string from the holes in her jeans. "And . . . that's it."<p>

She knew that her recital had been dry as dust. This happened, that happened, and then that. She didn't know how to tell it better. She could see them sorting things out in their heads as they listened, formulating questions and clarification. Hotch had actually jotted some notes down.

She risked a look at her dad. He stood with his back against the door, his eyes fixed on her face, his expression blank. She'd told him some of this in the car, scattered bits and pieces, but not the whole thing.

Not how it was all her fault that they'd come back.

When their eyes met, he crossed the room and sat down on the couch next to her, picking up her cold hands in his warm ones. "Elizabeth," he said. "I told you I was proud of you. I'm twice as proud now. You were brave and smart, and you got to me, and that's all that matters."

Her voice shook. "But Mom is - "

"We're getting your mom back, because you got here to tell us what happened."

She pressed her face into his shoulder, gulping air. She felt his arm come around her, and a kiss pressed to the top of her head.

"We need to ask some questions, sweetheart," he said in her ear after a minute. "Sit up."

She did, and the questions came. In gentle tones, in quiet supportive voices - _Help me understand, Elizabeth _- but still they came in a merciless flood. Questions about the cop in Atlanta, the man in D.C. Every so often, her dad would chime in with something he'd gathered in his frantic overnight investigation. Then questions about her mom, what she'd said at a particular time, how she'd reacted. Elizabeth had skimmed over the fight she'd had with her mom in Chicago, but J.J. and Hotch in particular seemed to be focused on that.

Hotch said, "When she gave you the money this morning, what did - Elizabeth?"

She'd squeezed her eyes shut, screwing up her face against the huge lump that rose up in her throat.

"Elizabeth," her dad said. "What is it?"

She clutched his hand. _0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89 . . . _"S'okay," she mumbled when she was able to speak again. "I'm good now. Please go on."

Hotch said, "Elizabeth, did I upset you?"

"No," she said. "You just ask questions the same way my mom does." Asking about weird details, focusing on the tiny things that revealed why instead of how.

Simons and Manning blinked, looking at the older agents. Hotch cleared his throat, J.J. looked down at her notes, Garcia said, "Oh," in a tiny voice.

Her dad broke the silence. "Well, sweetheart, that's to be expected. She's a profiler, too."

"I know," Elizabeth said. "I'm sorry. Please go on."

"Tell me again what she said when she gave you the money," Hotch said gently.

Every so often, one of the agents would look something up on their tablets, and tilt it to show someone else. Inevitably, there came more questions after that. But Elizabeth had no idea what it all meant or how it was helping to find her mom.

Eventually, the flood slowed to a trickle. Hotch dished out orders - call this department, contact that person. Her dad gave her hand a squeeze and joined them.

Garcia came and sat next to her. Elizabeth watched her warily, in case she attempted to launch another hug. But the tech just rubbed her shoulder. "They're the best, sweetness," she whispered. "They'll find your mom. I promise."

Hotch waved her over to their little knot of FBI efficiency before Elizabeth had to respond. She sat watching them and picking at her nails.

"Hey."

She looked up. Agent Chevalier held out a plastic-wrapped chocolate cupcake.

"For me?" she asked.

"You look as if you could use it," he said.

She took the cupcake, and he smiled at her, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He'd slipped out the door just after she finished her story and before all the questions had started. Apparently, this was why. "_Merci_," she said, unwrapping it and taking a bite.

"_De rien."_

She swallowed hastily. _"Parlez-vous français?"_ You speak French?

_"C'est ma langue maternelle."_ It's my first language.

She frowned. _"Mais vous êtes américain, non?"_ But you're American, aren't you?

_"J'ai émigré dans ce pays quand j'étais un petit garçon."_ I came to this country when I was a little boy.

"_De la France_?" From France?

"Elizabeth," Hotch said. "Would you mind viewing some mug shots?"

She jumped up, taking her half-eaten cupcake with her. Garcia, who was cuing up a tablet for her, said quietly, "You've been here half an hour and you already have a handsome federal agent bringing you chocolate and cooing to you in French. Teach me your ways, child."

Elizabeth said, "I'm sorry, I really have no idea what you're talking about," and bent over the mug shots, pretending her face wasn't hot enough to fry eggs.

* * *

><p>Emily flexed her fingers to keep them from going dead. She rolled one shoulder, then the other. They ached, but with her wrists duct-taped to the pipe, she couldn't relieve them much. She shifted, pulling her knees into her chest and then stretching her legs out flat. Her knees twinged.<p>

Honestly, she was too fucking old for this.

Doyle appeared in the doorway. "Comfortable?" he asked.

Even with the light in her eyes, she could just see the glint of a gun at his hip. A semi-automatic, the same kind that had blown Sean McAllister's and Clyde Easter's brains out. She smiled up at him. "No," she said. "But then, I was never the one who liked being tied up."

His lip curled. Like many powerful men, Ian Doyle got off on dominance play occasionally, but it was a dangerous thing, given his many enemies. She'd known she was in the first time he'd proposed it.

She dropped her head back against the pipe, her voice full of fond reminiscence. "You remember when I tied you to the bed in Madrid? I could've killed you then, you know. Or called my partners. They weren't but five minutes away. It could have been over there. Right then."

She waited, and saw in his eyes how badly he wanted to ask, _Why didn't you?_

He kept stony silence.

But she answered anyway. "I didn't have enough on you. Not yet. I needed more . . . leverage."

His face twisted with rage. Declan's bloodied body hung in the air between them. She watched his hand flicker toward the gun on his hip, and went tense.

But he breathed out, visibly dragging himself back from the abyss. "That was a long time ago," he said. "We should catch up. Tell me, Nora Brewster, how did you shift for yourself in Atlanta? Without your fancy FBI job and your family money?"

"You know how," she said. "Given that you're asking the question."

"I do at that," he said. "And it did my heart good, seeing what you became. Living on the dole, in crappy rented flats. Jobs a monkey could do. Very nice. Not enough to make up for eight years in a filthy prison, kicked like a dog any time they felt like it, but nice all the same."

She didn't argue his assessment, because it would be pointless. They hadn't been fulfilling jobs, God knew, but they'd kept a roof over her kid's head, food in her mouth, clothes on her back, and that wasn't nothing. Not to her.

"You told me you would take my life from me, and you did," she said. "When I ran, I lost that life. My job, my home, my family. I missed the weddings, the babies, and even a funeral with the people I loved. That's what you took from me."

"No more than what you took from me."

She wasn't done. "But you didn't get everything. I still had my victory, and God, it was sweet."

"Victory?" He sneered. "Because of me, for six years, you put on a smock every day and pushed buttons on a cash register, smiling and saying 'yes sir, yes ma'am' to people who wouldn't know Russian caviar and Limoges china if it kicked them in their well-padded arses. You thought a step up was toiling in a sea of meaningless paperwork in the bowels of a corporation, when you once gave interviews to CNN about what you'd done at work that day."

"All true. But I still beat you, Ian. Every night, I put my kid to bed and I knew that I'd won for another day, because I had mine and you didn't have yours."

He cuffed her, slamming her head back into the pipe. When her vision cleared, he was gone.

_God, _she thought, sagging back against the wall, the pipe a cold line up her spine. _Just do it already._

* * *

><p>While Garcia helped Elizabeth page through the electronic mug shots, J.J. reported to Hotch on the footage from Union Station. "They're sending a login for the system to Garcia's email. Universal access. She'll be able to follow Emily and Elizabeth both throughout the station."<p>

"Excellent. Can you work with Reid and follow up on his contacts in Atlanta, see if we can get anything from that end that could lead back to Doyle's whereabouts here?"

J.J. hesitated and looked over at the table. She felt her stomach twist. Penelope might gasp over the girl's resemblance to Emily, but sitting there with her long and gangling body, her brows drawn together, and her tufty dark hair, Elizabeth was a miniature Reid.

Hotch said quietly. "J.J., I understand what you're feeling at the moment. He's been lying to us. About Prentiss. But that's not our priority right now."

"I know," she said, looking away from the evidence of that lie. "Let's just find Emily. The rest can wait."

Simons and Manning joined them. "Sir," Manning said in a low voice. "Did you notice Reid during Elizabeth's story?"

They all had. Subtle to anyone else, a shout to a team of profilers that knew him well. He'd sat Elizabeth down on the sofa out of the sight-line of the windows. Rather than sitting with her, he'd stood with his back against the door they came in by, facing the other door. And every time the big glass doors down in the bullpen had open, he'd glanced down, checking movements and faces.

"He doesn't think she's safe here, either," Simons said. "He said they weren't followed from the station. That's inconsistent. They wouldn't give up like that. They'd've tried to intercept Elizabeth one last time."

Manning chimed in, "And did you notice, when she was telling us about the argument with the police? Right after she said who and where her father was, her pursuer backed down. He'd already attracted a great deal of attention. When he heard where she was going, he knew there was someone who could take her, quickly and quietly."

"Here," J.J. said.

Hotch said, "It would require a lot of influence to turn an FBI agent."

"But it can be done," Simons said. "Profile says Doyle uses spies and moles liberally."

"Sounds like Chevalier had an idea about it, though," Manning said. She nodded toward Reid and Chevalier, standing over by the door.

"I just checked. Three of them are vacant right now," the younger agent was saying. "Give me half an hour to put it together."

"You're sure, Aiden?"

"Look, you have enough to do, working with Doyle's profile, finding Prentiss. Let me take care of Elizabeth. I'll keep her safe."

"I know." Reid's eyes drifted over toward his daughter. He clearly didn't want to let her go again so soon. But Chevalier was right. Hotch needed all hands to work this case, and they could hardly stash Elizabeth in a corner of Garcia's office while it was all going on, especially if someone here was dirty. "Okay," he said finally. "Thank you."

Chevalier nodded, shoulders relaxing. He slipped out the door. Reid turned and saw them watching. He came to join them.

"What's his idea?" Manning asked. "Safe house?"

"Yes," Reid said. "I'll tell you more in a minute." His eyes rested on J.J. and Hotch. "You know, too, don't you?"

"What Emily intended? Yes."

J.J. could hardly force out the words. This wasn't like any other case, where you felt bad for the victims but did your job because really, you didn't know them. This was Emily. Lost to them for so long, still out of their reach. "From what Elizabeth says, she made up her mind just outside of Chicago."

"Wait," Manning said. "She meant to get captured?"

Hotch said, "Knowing Prentiss, once Elizabeth was somewhere safe, she planned to take the fight to Doyle, didn't she?"

"Yes. She obviously didn't intend to get taken on the platform the way she did. Though she was alert to the possibility." Reid rubbed his eyes.

"Do you think she's still alive?"

"I'm certain of it," Reid said, although the words didn't seem to bring him any joy. "But Emily will be working as hard as she can on Doyle. He'll get nothing out of killing Elizabeth if Emily is already dead. She's the last of the team that brought him down twenty-two years ago. If she does die, he'll flaunt it, and then both the FBI and the CIA will hunt him down like a rabid dog. He kills her and that's the end of him. She knows that. She'll be goading him. Every weapon at her disposal, and she's got plenty, to make him snap."

"Why?" Simons asked.

"For Elizabeth," Reid said. "So she's safe. Finally and irrevocably safe."

* * *

><p>"Would you like news of your girl?"<p>

She opened her eyes and looked warily up at him.

"She's at Quantico. With her dad."

Emily's stomach lurched. He hadn't known before who Elizabeth's father was. He hadn't known before that he had another path straight to her heart, one he could reach down, grab, and twist.

He did now.

"The quirky Doctor Reid," he all but crooned. "As I remember, you always had a soft spot for that one."

"Sure I did," she said, feigning casualness. "Right between my legs. He was a good lay."

He might have fallen for it, except that she'd slipped before, the night they'd met in the park. He'd taunted her with news of her team's whereabouts, showing how closely they were watched, but it hadn't been until he'd sneered at Reid that her control had cracked.

"More than that, I think. For one thing, you weren't getting paid to fuck him."

She shrugged. "Like I said. Best I've ever had." She smirked, reminding him that he was included in that assessment.

"I always thought he might be your girl's father. As big as her brains are. Do you think they'll look nice all over that wall?"

She kept her eyes steady although panic was buzzing along every nerve ending, burrowing deeper in toward her core. He was too happy over Elizabeth's whereabouts, too sanguine in the face of her best attempts to needle him. "You won't get the chance to find out."

"Won't I?" He crouched, tracing the lines of her face with a feather-light fingertip. "My man at Quantico's hard at work. He'll have her wrapped up and on her way anytime now. She'll land on my doorstep like a birthday present."

He was ready for the vicious kick she aimed at his ankle, and sidestepped it easily, laughing.

"MacAllister's daughter screamed right up until the moment I blew her head off. Think your little girl will do the same?"


	14. Chapter 13

(A/N) And it's back!

Our story so far: Fourteen years ago, Emily faked her own death to thwart Doyle, but before she did, she had one night with Reid, which produced a daughter, Elizabeth. Eighteen months ago, Reid found them by accident and has been keeping their secret, corresponding only through email. Meanwhile, he's been hunting Doyle in his own particular way, working with the Organized Crime department and a young agent named Aiden Chevalier. Unfortunately, after years of relative obscurity, Doyle's back on the rise, and he found Emily and, even worse, Elizabeth. His MO is targeting the children of the agent, killing them in front of their parents in retaliation for the death of his own son, Declan. Ruh-roh.

Emily sacrificed herself for Elizabeth, who then turned up safe at Quantico, busting her parents' secrets wide open in the process. J.J. is upset that Reid lied, Garcia is overjoyed to meet Elizabeth, and Hotch, well, who knows about Hotch. But they're doing what they do best, swinging into action to save their friend. It's not so easy, though. In a last-ditch bid to save her daughter, Emily is actively trying to get Doyle to kill her first. But Doyle's got a man at Quantico, and he promises that Elizabeth will get delivered to Doyle, and her death, within hours.

And did you hear what Steve did to Jessica? Oops, wrong story.

* * *

><p><em>Sometimes I think, what if I'd made a different choice? Back when he first returned, I had a month of sleepless nights, lying there wondering what I dared to risk. My brain was like this espresso-fueled rat in a cage, scrambling around and around and around. Fight him? Run for it? Fight? Run?<em>

_If I'd taken the fight to him, instead of faking my death and bolting, things would have been different, but not that different. Maybe he'd've killed me, maybe I'd've killed him. It'd be over, in every way. An FBI agent going rogue, or vigilante, or whatever? I'd've lost everything that I valued._

_And then I remember: I did anyway._

* * *

><p><em>Fight or run? That was all you could think of? <em>

_You had a family that loved you, would have fought for you, would have taken Doyle down like a pack of dogs after a fox if you'd given even a hint that you needed us._

_The way you were always there for us, we would have been there for you. How could you not have given us that much credit?_

* * *

><p><em>Maybe in some parallel universe, somewhere where you didn't mean so much to me, somewhere where I don't have to shoulder everything myself, somewhere I wasn't so fucking ashamed of Ian Doyle and Lauren Reynolds, maybe I could have.<em>

_Or maybe not._

* * *

><p>Garcia, armed with the sign-in to Union Station's security system, had gone off to her tech cave. Manning and Simons were going through Reid's files, pulling mug shots together with information. To Reid's surprise, J.J. had produced an extra volleyball bag of her daughter's, offering the clean practice clothes to Elizabeth so she could change out of the jeans she had been wearing for nearly a day and the thin, impractical t-shirt. Reid had tried to thank her, but she'd just given him a curt nod and taken his daughter to the bathrooms.<p>

When he turned away from the door, he caught Hotch's eye. "Reid," his boss said. "A moment?"

They went to his office. Hotch closed the door behind them, but didn't go behind his desk, which gave Reid heart.

"Hotch, I - "

Hotch held up a hand, and Reid stopped.

"She made you promise, didn't she?"

"Yes." Reid crossed his arms, cupping his elbows. "They were in deep cover. There was always the possibility that the Agency would decide it wasn't safe for them in Atlanta anymore, and spirit them away to some other city, under some other name. Me knowing, that was dangerous enough."

Hotch nodded. He'd already known all this. Reid knew he was just saying it to soothe his own feelings.

"Did you ever get to see them?"

"Only once. The day I found out about Elizabeth." He remembered again seeing Emily walk out of that elevator and haul Elizabeth into her arms, furious that their daughter had snuck off to a science convention without her. The same convention where Reid was speaking, where he'd met a lanky, quiet, brilliant girl and talked about math with her for an hour without ever suspecting that their mutual aptitude for numbers was more than a coincidence.

If he hadn't insisted on staying until her mom got there, he never would have known.

"Phone records are too easily hacked. You weren't able to call them, either, were you?

"I talked to Emily once on the phone, but other than that, we used encrypted emails to keep in touch."

"You said something earlier about appendicitis."

"Elizabeth contracted it over Christmas break. Emily called me from the hospital." His stomach clenched at the memory. "Until two days ago, I've never been that afraid."

"Do you think that's how Doyle found them?"

"I don't know." Reid rubbed his eyes. "Emily used a disposable phone to make the call, but it still would have had an Atlanta area code."

Hotch watched him silently for several seconds.

"I wanted to - But you know why I couldn't. Why I didn't dare."

Hotch said quietly, "Fifteen years ago, I beat a man to death for Jack. Believe me, Reid, I understand what a father will do to protect his child."

_A father._ The word wrapped around his heart, soothing the bruises from eighteen months of secrecy. He swallowed. "Do you think I should talk to the others?"

Hotch considered that. "Simons and Manning were surprised and a little hurt, but they don't have the emotional involvement with Emily. They're already past it. Garcia, as she always does, has chosen to focus on the joy. J.J. . . ."

Reid winced.

"The simple fact is, Reid, that it's _you._ You're too important for this not to cut, and cut deeply. And that it's Prentiss as well . . ." Hotch sighed. "You should speak to her, but don't be surprised if she needs time."

"I'll give it to her," Reid said.

"Good." Hotch went behind his desk and sat down, but instead of pulling out a folder, he picked up a pen and held it between his fingers, staring fixedly at the logo on the barrel. Reid waited for his next words, knowing Hotch had something he needed to say.

For all his profiling experience, he couldn't have predicted what.

"How is . . . Prentiss doing?"

"She - I - what?"

Hotch glared at the pen as if he might make it catch fire with the power of his mind. "Elizabeth said she was in a homeless shelter after leaving D.C." His fingers brushed his tablet. The bare facts of Nora Brewster's life were on the screen. "And her records indicate she received -" he swallowed. "She received public assistance for a time."

Then Reid understood, and felt stupid for not knowing this would come. Hadn't he sent pages and pages of questions to Emily, hungry for every last detail of her life without him? Without them? He'd missed her so terribly. And as he'd told Emily often, he hadn't been the only one.

He cleared his throat. "Not for some years, Hotch. Elizabeth was telling the truth. They're okay. Doing well, considering. They rented a house in a nice neighborhood. Good schools. Emily's been at her current job for the past seven years."

"Corporate accounting of some sort, isn't it?"

"Yes. Maybe Elizabeth didn't always get everything she wanted, but she's never gone without what she needed. Emily made sure of that."

Hotch nodded. "She's built a life for the two of them."

"Yes. Not one like before, when she was here. But a good one, all things considered."

Hotch set the pen down and didn't say anything more.

* * *

><p>The bathroom was a small interior one, windowless, glaring with fluroscent lights. J.J. checked the bathroom stalls. All empty. "Okay," she said, handing the volleyball bag to Elizabeth. "It's clear. Go ahead."<p>

"Thank you," Elizabeth said primly, and barricaded herself in the handicapped stall to change.

So cold, J.J. thought. So controlled. She'd told her story - Emily's story - like somebody delivering a lecture on chemical engineering. Except for that odd moment when she'd choked up - over questions, who choked up over _questions_? - she'd given out her answers like she was reciting mathematical formulas. Like a robot, not like a child at all. It was hard to remember she was only thirteen.

If her math was correct, little more than a month older than Cliff.

J.J. leaned against the counter, reading through Reid's incomprehensible scribble. Incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't worked with him for twenty years, anyway. Every so often, she would tap a note to herself on her tablet, which lay next to the sink. All the while, her mind churned away.

She'd surprised herself by making the offer to bring Elizabeth to the bathroom. She had definitely surprised Reid, who'd looked hopefully at her before her cold expression shut him down, and Elizabeth, too, who'd hesitated and glanced at her father before nodding her acceptance.

Maybe it was avoidance on her part. It had given her an excuse to just pick up the folder from Reid and walk away, rather than talking to him. She'd have to, soon. Hotch was right. They had to work together to get Emily back, and the scrambled mess of her emotions had to be gathered up and put away somewhere until after this was over.

But right now, even that much required some quiet and some distance.

The first layer was anger, a pure burning rush that ran through her veins like acid, for deceiving them all for so long. She hated him for keeping Emily's whereabouts and Elizabeth's existence secret, knowing what sharing it would have meant to them all.

More, she hated Emily, for landing herself in a situation where such secrecy was necessary.

Emily, who'd slept with a criminal for a profile, who'd stolen his child, who'd never shared this history even with her best friend, and who'd finally run away.

To protect them. J.J. realized that much. But run away all the same, without telling anyone. Not even J.J.

For God's sake, she'd been at Langley, the heart of the CIA, Emily's old bosses and the people who'd put her into hiding. Why hadn't Emily turned to her, even if she was protecting everybody else? She could have done something. She would have done something.

But no, Emily Prentiss had to handle it all by herself.

_Isn't that just like you? _she thought. _I don't need anybody's help. I won't look weak in front of other people. I will be cool and in control. _

_And how did that work out for you?_

She gritted her teeth. She knew she was using anger as a defense against hurt, and weirdly, against hope, because there was still the chance that they could lose Emily forever, and if she poured all her energy into being angry, she wouldn't have to look that fear in the face.

Knowing it and being able to work through it were two different things.

She set the folder down on top of her tablet. "Elizabeth?" she called out.

"Yes?"

"I have to step outside to make a phone call."

"Okay."

"I'll be right outside the door," J.J. said, stung by the indifference in the girl's voice. "I'll come if you call."

"Okay," Elizabeth said in precisely the same tone.

Right.

As she walked out of the bathroom, J.J. dialed her phone. She listened to it ring once, then again, before her daughter answered. "Mom? Henry's a liar. Don't believe him."

J.J.'s brows shot up. "About what?"

"What?" Cliff said. "Oh, never mind. What's up?"

She leaned back against the wall. "Just called to see how everybody was feeling this afternoon."

"Better. What about you? Your voice sounds kinda weird. Did you barf at work, Mom?"

"No, I'm just a little . . . I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Why? Is something wrong? Omigod. Something happened. Somebody got hurt. Was it Uncle Spence? Is Uncle Spence dead?"

"Honey! No, everyone's fine!"

Cliff, who had been gearing up for a really enjoyable panic, sounded a little disappointed. "Well, what am I supposed to think? You're all, 'Oh, Cliff, I just wanted to hear your voice.' You only say stuff like that when something's wrong."

J.J. rolled her eyes to the ceiling and reminded herself that her daughter wasn't going to be thirteen forever, and someday it might actually take some measurable unit of time for her to go from zero to flip-out. "I can't just call to talk to my own daughter for no reason?"

"Mom, when you left, you told Dad to go out and buy muzzles for us. You couldn't wait not to talk to me, and that was like two hours ago."

She huffed out her breath. "Okay, fine. I am a little upset."

"I knew it. What's wrong?"

"It's Uncle Spence - but not the way you think! We had - " No, they hadn't had an argument, had they? Not yet. "I'm angry at him."

"Uncle Spence? Why?"

"He kept something from me. Something big."

"What is it?"

"I don't really want to talk about it right now."

J.J. could almost hear her daughter's mind churning over the phone. But she said, "Okay. So, have your mad and then talk to him when you're ready."

It was something she used to say to the kids when they were little. That was the trouble with kids. They turned your own weapons back on you.

Cliff misinterpreted her silence. "It'll be okay, Mom. Uncle Spence knows you don't really hate him. You could never."

J.J. found herself smiling at the maternal tone in her daughter's voice. "Yeah, I know. Honey . . ."

"Yeah?"

J.J. stared blankly at the bathroom door, thinking of the girl inside. _Could you run for your life? Could you see me in danger and be strong enough to understand that I needed you to be safe first? Could you make it across the country with murderers on your tail, and come to a place where you only know one person? Could you bear the weight of that and still stand up under it?_

"Yeah?" her daughter said again.

"I had to lend your spare volleyball things to somebody who needed clean clothes. Just for the day. You'll get them back. Is that okay?"

"Oh. Sure, okay."

"Thanks." Her eyes narrowed. "Now, about what you think Henry told me - "

"Oh, um, Mom, I think I've gotta go barf again bye!" She hung up.

J.J. smiled to herself. Will would handle whatever minor war their kids had cooked up today, and her stomach no longer churned with emotion. She thought of the cold, unnatural girl inside the bathroom, so different from her own warm, goofy, sweet daughter, and sighed.

_She's been through so much, _she reminded herself._ These may be the worst possible circumstances to meet anybody. Don't take your anger at her parents out on her._

A couple of female voices echoed in the hallway, gradually growing louder as they approached. "She's definitely his kid. I mean, did you get a look at her? Like a little clone."

"You don't think he actually cloned himself?"

After a moment, J.J. identified both speakers. Jessie Liu and Grace Malone, decent agents but a little too fond of inter-office gossip.

"N-no," Liu said slowly. "Not really. I have a theory."

Malone said, "Oh, tell."

Liu's voice lowered, but as close as they were now, J.J. had no trouble hearing. "Okay, so this was before your time, but there was a BAU agent named Derek Morgan. Finest hunk to ever walk these halls, screwed anything that moved. Somehow, he and Reid were best friends. Don't ask me how that worked. I think it's most likely that Reid nailed some of his leavings and forgot to wear a raincoat. Oops!"

J.J.'s eyes narrowed. She took one step, just enough to bring her into view. Malone spotted her first, and stopped short, eyes wide, jabbing Liu in the ribs.

"J.J," Liu said casually. "Hi."

"Hey," she said. "You talking about Reid and the girl he brought with him?"

Liu's eyes lit with anticipation. This was as close to the horse's mouth as they were likely to get. "You have any details?"

"Plenty." She crooked her finger, and they scurried closer.

Malone practically rubbed her hands together. "So what do you know?"

"I know . . ." J.J. lowered her voice, and they leaned in, practically slavering. "I know this is none of your damn business, and if you don't want me to sic Garcia on your credit ratings, you'll shut your flapping lips. Got me?"

The avaricious smiles froze. Malone coughed. Liu cleared her throat. They both backed away. "Sorry," Malone said.

"You have to admit it's interesting," Liu said, a thin defense.

J.J. turned her back and went into the bathroom again.

Elizabeth had emerged from the stall and stood studying herself in the mirror. She didn't look over as J.J. came in. That roused her suspicions. "Elizabeth? Are you ready?"

"Yes."

J.J. eyed her. "So," she said. "Could you hear through the door all right?"

Then Elizabeth looked at her, eyes wide for a moment before they went cool and brazen, just like her mom's when you caught her bluffing at poker. "Admirably, thank you. Did you mean me to?"

_There_ was Emily in this girl, tough and suspicious and shields firmly up. It raised a lump in her throat. She swallowed hard. "No. I'd rather you hadn't heard any of that."

"Even you?"

"Even me. Nobody should have to hear that kind of thing, and I'm sorry you did."

Elizabeth looked away and shrugged, casual and arrogant. A fine show of uncaring. "The hell with them.""

A laugh bubbled up in J.J.'s throat. She swallowed that too. "How are the clothes?"

"Fine."

They weren't fine. Athletic wear never looked good on anybody, and it was especially terrible on Elizabeth's long, skinny frame. The sweatpants were a shade too short, exposing a inch-wide strip of sock above her beat-up shoes. The t-shirt hung straight down from her shoulder blades and made her look more boyish than ever. J.J. imagined that the jacket, folded on the counter top, would engulf her.

"Fine? Really?"

Elizabeth gave her a sidelong glance. "It's clean, anyway, right?"

Cliff's bag sat at J.J.'s feet. She knelt and unzipped a side pocket. It had to be in here somewhere. She couldn't imagine her daughter - Ah. She straightened up, a small drawstring bag in her hand. "Would you like something to put in your hair?"

Elizabeth's hand went to the tufty mess automatically. She bit her lip. "I'm okay."

J.J. undid the drawstring and let the mess of pins, barrettes, and ribbons tumble out on to the countertop, along with a palm-size brush. "Are you sure?"

Elizabeth's eyes drifted over them. "Won't she mind? Your daughter?"

"I think she would mind more if I didn't offer you some accessories." J.J. watched her gaze linger on a couple of butterfly barrettes in the colors of Cliff's school, orange and brown. She picked one up. "What about these?"

Elizabeth looked up at her.

Twenty years before, Spencer Reid had looked at her in the same way when she first called him Spence - faintly alarmed, wary. At the time, she'd thought he was a stiff, weird, cold young man. In time, she'd come to realize that this still watchfulness was his way of guarding himself against people who too often hurt him, and that he would come around to things in his own silent way.

She waited. Elizabeth nodded.

J.J. ran the brush lightly through her hair. "These are my daughter's favorites," she said conversationally. "She likes to think they're Harvester butterflies."

_"Feniseca tarquinius_," Elizabeth said thoughtfully, picking one up to study it. "The only carnivorous butterfly. Although really it's the larvae who are carnivorous."

"She still gets a kick out of wearing vicious killer attack butterflies in her hair during games."

Elizabeth's lips curved, ever so slightly.

J.J. clipped a barrette above each temple, making sure to catch the pieces of hair that tried to fall in the girl's eyes. Pieces still stuck up, but now it looked cute and feminine, rather then merely messy. Elizabeth contemplated herself, then looked down at her feet. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome." She started picking up the other hair things, dropping them back in the pouch. "Elizabeth, when is your birthday?"

"November twenty-seventh, 2011," Elizabeth said promptly.

She'd been right. "You know, my daughter is about a month younger than you."

"A month and two days," she said. "December twenty-ninth, 2011."

J.J's fingers went still.

"Dad says it kind of stinks for her because she's always getting one present for both Christmas and her birthday."

"Yeah. It does a little," J.J. said, trying to wrap her head around the idea that Reid had told his secret daughter so much about Cliff that Elizabeth knew the precise date of her birthday.

The girl's voice, when she spoke again, was shy and wistful. "My dad thinks we'll like each other. Cliff and me. Of course, he's somewhat biased."

J.J. took a risk and reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Other than a slight twitch of her shoulders, like a restless horse, Elizabeth permitted it. "For what it's worth," J.J. said, "I think he's right."


	15. Chapter 14

_When she was a baby, there was a neighbor that took care of her while I worked. Easier for Nancy to clear and monitor one person than a whole daycare staff, especially the kind of craptastic daycares my budget would have allowed at the time. Libs adored Iolanta Dubenovich. She called her Tetya, Auntie. But when she was four, Iolanta was deported back to Russia, and ever since then, it's just been me. Until you appeared._

_She quizzes me about you, and my mom, and the team, like she's studying for a test. She's terribly disoriented by all these people suddenly appearing in my history, and by extension hers. She's not sure what exactly it means to have these kind of ties, especially since she has nothing but names to link to the stories. No faces, and no personal experience except with you._

* * *

><p>Sifting through security footage was one of the duller parts of her job, so Garcia had long ago perfected the art of multi-tasking. Many a scarf and sweater had been worked on, many a database searched, many a security system hacked while she kept one eye on people moving back and forth across her monitors.<p>

Today, however, the monitors received her full attention. Her heart thudded against her ribs as her eyes searched the screen for a face she hadn't seen in fourteen years.

On the camera from Platform Five, the train pulled in. It went still, and then the doors began to open. Three cars from the front, Elizabeth suddenly burst through the half-open doors and pelted down the platform. Garcia swallowed. "Oh, sweet girl."

She zoomed in, focusing on the doors Elizabeth had emerged from. A boy stumbled down the steps, yelling something after Elizabeth. A few more people followed and then -

"Emily," she whispered.

Shorter hair, older face, but Emily, wrestling with a man, dragging him in the other direction from Elizabeth. Garcia caught her breath as blows landed, silent on the screen. For a moment it seemed as though Emily would be successful, but then another man leapt out of the train car and rammed one shoulder into her side, knocking her down. The first man, thus freed, turned and pushed through the gathering crowd of people in the direction Elizabeth had gone. Emily rolled to her feet, clearly ready to lunge after him, but the second man caught her by the arms, yanking them hard behind her. They fought briefly, but he had the advantage, and then he leaned in to whisper something in her ear. She went still, shoulders heaving, face drawn.

_You fight anymore and she's dead right now_, Garcia imagined. Only something like that could have made Emily stop fighting, even for a moment.

Security guards appeared, none too soon in Garcia's opinion, and the second man said something to them, jerking his head toward Emily and shaking it. High? Drunk? Mentally ill? What kind of excuse had he given?

Whatever it was, it worked, because after a few moments, the guards nodded and waved them off. Emily's captor turned her forcibly in the other direction, frog-marching her off toward a set of stairs.

Garcia clicked pause, pressed her fingers to her lips, and breathed hard for a moment. Tears stung her eyes. Then she swallowed and put her hands on the keyboard, isolating the clips, finding the best stills of Emily's opponents. Doing her job. She noted the security guards on a pad of lavender paper shaped like a kitten. Someone would have to talk to them. Not that she expected to them to have overheard anything like, "Let's get her to the warehouse at 430 K Street." But her team hadn't become the best in the FBI by leaving stones unturned.

When she was done with the footage from Platform Five, she sat for a moment, drained. She wasn't done, not by a long shot. But she needed to gear herself up to tackle the rest of the footage.

She took her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at it.

He'd want to know.

Of anyone, he'd want to know.

Morgan picked up after one ring. "Hey, beautiful. Don't worry, no new cases. My ladies and I are on track to be at DFW in two hours."

It took her a moment to make sense of his words, although she'd been looking forward to seeing Morgan and his wife and daughter for a month. She managed a smile. "Well, that's good to hear, but that's not why I c-called."

His voice sharpened. "What is it? You okay, sweet mama? You had a checkup this morning, right? Is there something wrong with - "

"I'm okay, the baby's okay, it's - " She gulped as tears choked her voice. "It's Emily."

A split second of silence, then a long, slow exhalation. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and dead. "Where did they find the body?"

"No," Garcia said. "She's alive." Her eyes flicked to her computer screen, filled edge to edge with a still of Emily fighting, teeth bared, eyes fierce. "Morgan, she's alive."

He sounded oddly lost as he said, "Alive?"

"And she's trying to come home. But he's got her, the man she was running from before."

"My God," he whispered. "Tell me what I can do, babygirl."

She hesitated.

"Penelope, I am _not_ sitting on my ass and doing nothing when Emily needs me, not this time. Tell me. What. To do."

"Reid can tell you everything. He's the one who knows the most. But, listen," she said quickly, "before you talk to him, there's something else you need to know."

* * *

><p>J.J. was actually not so bad, Elizabeth thought as they left the bathroom. Telling off those women was exactly like something Mom would've done, although she wouldn't've used Garcia as a threat. She'd've just smirked and let the gossips come up with some awful fate all in their own brain.<p>

Elizabeth looked around the bullpen as they walked in, and then looked down at her feet, very fast. People were looking at them sidelong, all corners of their eyes. It wasn't just those nasty witches that J.J. had shut down. People were talking about her. Them. She curled her toes up inside her shoes.

J.J. said, "Come on, we'll go back to the conference room."

But her dad was at a desk next to a flight of stairs. "I don't want to," Elizabeth said, veering right and headed toward him. He was talking on the phone. It didn't look like a comfortable conversation. Elizabeth ignored J.J.'s muttered, "Wait - "

He glanced up, saw Elizabeth and then gave J.J. a little nod, mouthing, _It's okay._

Feeling triumphant, Elizabeth leaned against his desk while J.J. headed off to her office.

Triumph turned to boredom fairly quickly. Her dad's end of the conversation was all terse phrases, and whoever was on the other end wasn't talking loud enough for her to make out more than a few words.

Boredom aside, she didn't want to leave her dad again. She passed the time by investigating the contents of the borrowed jacket. Clearly, Cliff LaMontagne was the kind of person who kept everything she might ever possibly need in her pockets. Elizabeth pulled out a squished chocolate drop, a dollar-thirty-three in change, a packet of trail mix, a ponytail holder, a Metro card folded up like a paper airplane, a length of string, watermelon-flavor lip gloss, a single earring in the shape of a lightning bolt, and a linty peppermint candy.

She wondered what these things said about Cliff. Her mom was always saying that you could tell everything about a person by just observing. Dad said that too. Profiler thing, she guessed. Of course, her dad knew Cliff and had no need to profile her.

She ate the chocolate and the trail mix, threw away the peppermint, and dumped everything else back in the pockets. She folded the jacket and rested it on her lap again.

Her dad was still on the phone. He gave her a grimace, as if to say, _sorry._

She sighed, shifted, and knocked a folder off a pile of books. It flopped down and the contents slid halfway out. Her dad glanced over and before she could get more than a glimpse, he'd scooped it all together and slid it into a drawer on his other side.

Elizabeth didn't pursue it. One of the things on top had been a photo, with a _lot_ of red in it.

She scanned her dad's desk, which was piled high with folders and books. Post-it notes infested the frosted glass panel between his desk and Manning's. Other than his computer, he only had two non-work things, a tiny star puzzle and a travel chess board.

She spidered her fingers along the surface of his desk, watching him. He shifted, but saw her intention and gave her a little nod. She pulled the board out farther so she could see the game.

It was their game, the one they played over email. While she didn't need a physical board to keep all the pieces and their positions straight, she had one set up in her room anyway, on top of her dresser next to her favorite reading spot, a ratty armchair. It made her smile to see that he did the same.

She'd never sent him her last move. They'd had to run before she could. She carefully turned the board to her own side, and then made her move, capturing one of his rooks and placing herself in perfect position to strike at his queen. She sent him a sneaky, sidelong look.

He'd leaned forward and was tapping out an email one-handed, attaching files with quick motions of his mouse. She sighed.

"Right. Okay. Yes. I will. What?" He faltered, glancing at her. "Yes. I promise. Thanks, Morgan." He hung up and then looked at the board. His brows quirked and his mouth twisted up. "Hmm. Interesting."

She grinned.

He leaned over, moved his knight, and captured her queen.

Her mouth fell open. "Buh - wha - where did he come from?"

He rolled her queen between finger and thumb. "He was always there, honey. You shouldn't've taken my rook."

She narrowed her eyes at the board. She was going to have to do some thinking. She could still win the game without her queen, but it would be significantly harder.

She straightened up. "Dad, what's going to happen now?"

He sat back. "My team is going to work the case. We'll use Doyle's profile and the resources of Organized Crime to track down the most likely places for him to have taken your mother."

Not really what she'd asked, but then, she hadn't been entirely clear. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to go to a safe place and wait."

Elizabeth frowned. "Where? Here?"

"No. Someplace else."

"I want to stay here."

"But you can't."

"Why not?"

"Elizabeth, I can work on finding your mom or I can worry about you. Now which would you rather I concentrate on?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm thirteen years old. I'm not a baby. I won't misbehave or anything."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know that," he said. "That's not what I'm worried about."

She sat still, watching him. A safe place, he'd said. "You told me I was safe here," she said in Russian.

He reached out to touch the back of her hand with one finger. She pulled it away. He sighed and nodded at the conference room. "Come on. We'll talk in there."

* * *

><p>Morgan set his phone in the middle of his desk. He looked at it for a moment and rubbed his hand over his mouth.<p>

Emily Prentiss was alive. Had been living in Atlanta. Had a daughter. Reid's daughter.

Good goddamn. Clearly life could still surprise the shit out of him.

He'd known something was different about Reid for a long time. _Known._ But there'd been other things to think about, his own team to run, and his friend seemed happy, even if something was different, so he'd just let it go.

He picked up his phone again and dialed number one on his speed dial.

"Hello?"

"Hey, you," he said, trying to sound as much like himself as he could.

Close to twenty years after coming to America, Amina still hadn't lost her slight Somalian accent. It was the sexiest thing about her, after everything else. A note of resignation entered her voice now. "Don't tell me. You got a case."

Never could get anything past that woman. Probably why he'd married her. He said, "No. Well. Not in the usual way."

She waited.

"How clear's your desk?"

"Another fifteen minutes and I might actually see the surface." Like him, she was doing her best to justify a week off by not leaving anything to fester while they were in D.C.

"Can you check into something for me?"

"Depends what it is," she said.

"A CIA handler bit it in Atlanta on Tuesday. Nancy Barville. Her charges rabbited, as well they should, because the backup, James Malcolm, died on Wednesday."

She didn't sound shocked. "And the charges? Did they turn up dead as well?"

"Woman and her daughter. They made it to D.C. The girl's safe, the mother's not. We need to know what the Agency's learned about their handlers' murders and if possible, how their cover got blown."

"Mmm," she said, not committing one way or the other. "Now tell me, _rohi._ Why is the FBI concerned with two CIA charges? And why is this so personally important to you?"

Not one single, solitary thing. She'd've made a hell of a profiler. "You remember me telling you about my old team?"

"Yes."

"About Emily Prentiss. Who disappeared."

A long silence. "The mother."

"The mother," Morgan said.

She didn't ask how he knew. She didn't ask about the daughter, when the Emily he'd told her of had had no such thing. She didn't give him any sort of official-channels line, any kind of demur over how tricky a bit of politics that would be, pulling information on a current CIA investigation for the edification of an outside agency. She knew he knew all that, and he'd asked anyway.

She simply said, "I'll find out what we know."

* * *

><p>Hotch, Manning, and Simons were all in the conference room. Elizabeth turned her back on them and said again, "You told me I was safe here."<p>

"You can use English," he said gently, in that language.

She stuck stubbornly to Russian. The words felt comforting in her mouth. "Dad, why don't you think I'm safe here?"

He gave in, and told her in Russian, "You're safer with me than you were on your own." His accent was terrible. At another time, she would have found it amusing. "But you would be better off somewhere else."

"But this is Quantico," she said.

"Even Quantico isn't . . . entirely secure for you."

She clutched her elbows. "You think - " She wondered if even Russian was safe to use. But it was the only language besides English that she and her father had in common. Suddenly, she could feel the furtive glances from the other agents down in the bullpen, like little poison needles in her skin. What if it wasn't just gossipy curiosity? What if it was something darker? "You think somebody's dirty here? But how?" This was _Quantico_, she thought helplessly. The safe haven she'd been running toward for the past two days. How could one of Doyle's men be here?

"It's a strong possibility, and I don't want to take the risk," he said.

She looked away. "Are you coming with me?"

"No. I have to be here. I have to do my job. Aiden will take care of you."

"Who's Aiden?"

"Agent Chevalier. He'll keep you safe."

Her cheeks heated briefly. Okay, maybe it wouldn't be so completely awful if Agent Chevalier was looking after her. "But how will I know what's happening?"

"I'll keep you up to date."

She chewed her lip, and her eyes drifted over to the screen. It had a timeline that stretched several years into the past. As she watched, words appeared letter by letter. She glanced over. Manning was entering data.

_Sean, Sadie, and Brenna McAllister killed._

The date was a few months before she was born. The mouse moved, and another point appeared, somewhere around her second birthday. _Clyde and Michael Easter killed._

She swallowed and remembered that Doyle killed people. Families.

Her father's hand touched her shoulder. "Libs," he said. "You'll be fine. Trust me."

She did trust her dad. She'd told her mom so. Elizabeth swallowed again and nodded. "Okay," she said in English. "I'll go."

He squeezed her shoulder lightly in thanks.

"How long will it take?" she asked him.

"It's impossible to predict that."

"Elizabeth."

She looked over her shoulder. It was Hotch who had spoken. At some point during their conversation, J.J. and Garcia had both arrived, and the room felt almost as full as when she'd told her story.

"This is what we do, you know," the old agent said. "For a very long time."

She pivoted to face him. "Mom and Dad both say you're really good. All of you."

"We're _very_ good," Hotch said simply. "And I'd like you to remember that this is more than just a case to us. Your mom was - is - someone very special to most of the people in this room, and we want her back almost as much as you do."

Garcia nodded hard, curly hair bobbing. There were tears behind her sparkly glasses. J.J. nodded too, her gaze steady. Even Manning and Simons gave little nods, although they hadn't known Mom.

She said, "Thank you. I will remember that."

The door opened again, and Agent Chevalier came in.

Her dad said, "Aiden. Everything ready?"

"Safe house requested, favors called in," the younger agent said. "We just have to hit the road." His gaze dropped to Elizabeth. "Hey. So. You know the plan?"

"Yes."

"You ready?"

"Now?" she asked in some dismay.

"We don't have any extra time, Libs," her dad said.

Agent Chevalier said, "Don't worry. You'll be fine. I'll take care of you."

She bit her lip. "I guess." She shrugged into her borrowed jacket, feeling the laden pockets bump against her hipbones.

Garcia got to her feet and held out her arms. "Hug?" she asked plaintively.

Elizabeth hesitated, then allowed herself to be hugged. "We'll find your mom, baby," Garcia whispered in her ear. "Everything's going to be all right."

Hotch touched her shoulder, just his fingertips, without saying anything. She gave him a small smile, remembering what he'd said.

"You're losing your barrette," J.J. said.

Elizabeth reached up and touched it, unsurprised. Things tended to slip out of her hair.

"Here - can I?"

She stood still as J.J. re-fastened the butterfly more securely. It felt like something Mom would have done for her. She bit her lip.

"Okay." J.J. smoothed her hand over Elizabeth's hair. "Better now."

"Thank you," she said.

She turned back to her dad and looked up at him, trying to think what to say. Words failed. She slid her arm around his waist and buried her face in his chest, feeling his arms wrap around her in response.

She didn't want to go. She didn't want to sit and wait in a safe house somewhere and not know what was going on.

He kissed her temple and said quietly, "Go with Aiden. Be brave, sweetheart."

She nodded against him, and he let her go.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the door Agent Chevalier held open for her. She forced her pace to remain steady along the walkway, down into the bullpen, through the gauntlet of eyes again. As he pulled open the big glass doors, Elizabeth looked back. Through the big window, she could see into the conference room. Everyone was already buried in their papers and their tablets and their maps, except her dad. He stood in the window where she'd first seen J.J., watching them go. When he saw her looking, he raised his hand and gave her a little wave.

She waved back, and the doors shut between them.


	16. Chapter 15

When the door closed behind Elizabeth, Garcia came up next to him. "Are you sure about this? Sending her off to a safe house?"

"I trust Aiden," Reid said.

"I never said you shouldn't. I'm worried about Elizabeth."

"What about her?"

"Oh. Honey. She wants to be here with her daddy, not bundled off to safety."

"She'll be fine. Aiden will look after her."

Garcia shook her head, pityingly. "Reid, listen. A teenage girl will slip your grip faster than the class hamster. Now, she's got a cute little crush on him, and that'll help - "

"A what?"

" - but she's Emily's daughter, and if she thinks she needs to be back here, then sure as God made little green apples, she will find a way."

"I explained it to her," Reid said, choosing not to think about that "crush" comment. "She understands. She has a very logical mindset."

"Okay," Garcia said.

"Garcia."

Her eyes widened with innocence. "What? I said okay."

"Garcia," Hotch said. "Reid."

It was the traditional Hotchian call to order, the unspoken nudge to concentrate on the case they had in front of them. He'd heard it over and over on so many cases that even he would have to stop and think for a minute to put a number to it.

All else aside, this was a case. To do this right, he had to pack away his emotions and focus on the data. He put his hand in his pocket, touched the bronze chip that he always carried, and reminded himself that he'd done harder things.

He turned. "Simons, Manning, what did you find?"

"From Doyle's known associates, Elizabeth identified four men she saw at Union Station," Manning said, bringing up their mug shots. "Two of them from the train, two from the station itself. We pulled their bios, and there's not a choirboy in the bunch. That's the man who chased her."

Reid focused on the third man in the row. "Nick Cassevetes," he said. He'd thought it was possible from Elizabeth's description, but this confirmed it. The profiler in him did a happy dance. The father in him wanted to vomit. "He came out of the gangs in Boston. His juvie record is sealed, but he did spend some time in prison in his late teens for accessory to murder. When he got out, he went right to work for Doyle. Organized Crime's best information places him in the number-two spot in the organization."

Simons straightened up. "Doyle sent his second-in-command to pick up Elizabeth?"

"Not to mention a trail of bribes and a net across the country." Hotch said. "He's throwing everything at this."

Reid nodded at his friend. "Everything. This is all he cares about anymore."

"He'll get sloppy."

"Maybe." Reid's fingertips tapped restlessly against the table top. "He's had a lot of time to plan. Garcia, what did you get off the security feed?"

"Still plugging away, but I did get some choice vid, including a car with a plate."

Manning studied the video of Emily being manhandled toward a plain black SUV by two men. "Conscious and upright as of two hours ago," she said. "Good sign, right?"

Cassavetes came in to view. Emily looked over, and her whole body relaxed.

Garcia said, "Um, actually - " When Emily said something to Cassavetes, she flinched and shut her eyes.

Cassavetes backhanded Emily across the face. The blow knocked her backward, her head bounced off the window of the SUV, and she crumpled into a heap on the dirty garage floor.

Reid flinched and forced himself to breathe. "Cassavetes has explosively violent tendencies." He could well imagine what Emily had said to him. _Got away, didn't she? That's my girl._ Dumb to taunt him, but to Emily, irresistible.

J.J's voice, when she spoke, shook only a little. "Do you think he killed her?"

Hotch said, "And risk Doyle's wrath? No."

On the screen, they loaded Emily's limp form into the backseat as if they were loading groceries and drove off.

"So," Simons said. "They're taking her right to Doyle. But where is that?"

"I'm good," Garcia said, "but I'm not that good yet."

"The McAllister and Easter murder scenes were both in basements of waterfront warehouses," Hotch said. "London and Liverpool, respectively. They looked very much like the one Emily set up for Declan. He's clearly recreating that as closely as possible."

J.J. frowned. "You know, he couldn't take the McAllisters and the Easters all the way to the original scene, but Declan's 'death' was in Boston, only a few hours from here. Could Cassavetes be taking Emily back there?"

Reid twisted a pencil in his fingers. "That warehouse was condemned and torn down about seven years ago. Even the basement was filled in. It's a park now. He might still want to take them back to the city, but without the physical location being available, it's much less likely. Plus, there are a number of D.C. companies and businesses that have been identified as having possible links to Doyle's organization. Much easier to use a property here that he owns or has leverage over."

"So we're looking for a waterfront warehouse, with a basement, in the D.C. metro area, that could be owned by any number of shell companies," Manning said. "That totally narrows it down,"

Hotch said to Garcia, "Can you do this?"

Her eyes widened. "How can you ask that?"

"Garcia - "

"I know I got upset, but I can do this. This is Emily. How can you think I could turn this over to another analyst and look myself in the eye ever again? I have to do this."

Hotch said, very, very gently, "I meant, this is a great deal of information for even you to sift through by yourself. Although I have every faith in your abilities, I was offering another pair of hands if you wanted them."

She deflated, mouth going round. "Oh. Th-that would be nice. Yes, please."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth and Agent Chevalier were almost out the front door when someone called out, "Chevalier! Hey! Wait up."<p>

"Billings," Chevalier said flatly.

Billings was a bullish-looking agent that reminded Elizabeth of a football player who'd once tried to cheat off her math final. He had a wad of gum in his mouth, and the gross, squishy sound of chewing punctuated his words. "I need you to forward me the e-mail about the new procedures. I deleted it."

Didn't he know how to go into his trash folder? It sounded flimsy to Elizabeth, and she didn't much like the way he kept glancing at her. She turned her back on him and leaned her elbows on the window. It looked out into the grounds. She shifted until the light angled properly to make it a mirror. The two men appeared like ghosts against the outside.

"Look, I'm on my way out."

"Use your phone, Agent. It'll take five seconds."

Chevalier blew out a breath and pulled his phone off his belt.

His point gained, Billings relaxed. "So that's her?"

"That's who?"

"Y'know. The nerd's mystery kid."

Chevalier shifted his weight, his back blocking Elizabeth's view of Billings. She sidled over until she could see the other agent's face in the window again.

"You mean, Dr. Reid? Yeah, that's his daughter. She's not deaf, you know."

"Where you taking her?"

"Safe house."

"Did you know he had a kid?"

"Nope, not until today."

"Thought you two were such good friends."

Chevalier didn't answer.

"A kid," Billings said, chomping away. "Unbelievable. Y'know, I always thought he was gay. Or a eunuch."

Elizabeth had had enough. She turned. "Agent, the practice of castration is generally confined to sex offenders in the United States. Unless you meant to imply that my father is a sex offender, I believe you may be referring to asexuality, which is expressed in about one percent of the population. Although I really must state that I don't think my father's sexual preference is any of your business and I think it's tacky and gross that you brought it up in front of me."

Billings's jaw went still. He stared at her.

Chevalier said blandly. "Told you she wasn't deaf."

"Sorry," Billings muttered. "I didn't think you were listening."

Grown-ups never thought kids were listening. "It's still gross."

Chevalier hit a button. "There. It's in your inbox. Ready to go, Libs?"

"Yes," she said.

He nodded at Billings. "See you."

* * *

><p>She waited until they were outside to say, "I really prefer Elizabeth."<p>

He was scanning the area. "What?".

"You called me Libs."

"Isn't that what your dad called you?"

"My parents are really the only ones who use that," she said. "I prefer Elizabeth for everybody else."

"Ah. Sorry. Elizabeth it is."

She gave him a little smile, vaguely embarrassed to have been so pedantic about it, but it was _her_ name. She'd been called Beth, Lizzy, Liz, Libby, and all the other permutations so many times that she'd learned to be quite insistent about her preferences.

"And you can call me Aiden if you want."

She tilted her head. "Aiden's not a French name."

"Names are funny things," he said as they passed into the shade of a parking garage. "As you well know, Elizabeth Emily Brewster Prentiss Reid."

"Who told you my middle name?"

"The dossier in your file."

"Mmm," she said, and remembered something else. "Sorry I was snarky to your friend."

"What, Billings? He's not my friend, believe me. Seeing him get told off by a thirteen-year-old might've made my week."

"Why did you do what he asked?"

With an edge to his voice, he said, "Because ten years in the Bureau trumps thirteen months, every time."

"Oh," she said.

His voice became light again. "I'm really a fairly junior agent. I hope you're not disappointed."

She shrugged.

"Okay." He unlocked a beat-up green sedan. "Sorry about my car. I'm still paying off student loans."

"I like it," she said, climbing in. "It looks like our car."

"Duct tape and all?"

"Well, the duct tape is in different places," she said, and he laughed.

"We've got a long drive," he said once he'd buckled himself in. "You don't get carsick, do you?"

"Course not."

"Didn't think so." He put his hand into an outside pocket of his bag and pulled out a reader. "Here. See if there's anything you'd like on there."

She turned it on and started scanning the titles with interest as they pulled out of the garage. "Did you buy all these books?"

"Over time. I'm sort of a hoarder."

He had it organized by author, she noted approvingly. She knew some - Isaac Asimov, Stephen Hawking, Carl Sagan, Terry Pratchett, J.R.R. Tolkien. Others were unfamiliar - Robert Jordan, Jonathan Maberry, Harry Turtledove, George R.R. Martin, Sharon Kay Penman. Still others were a surprise. "Harry Potter? Alice in Wonderland?"

"Yeah." There was a soft, rough edge to his voice. She looked up. He avoided her gaze.

"You know Lewis Carroll was a mathematician? The whole second book is a chess game."

"Yeah, I did."

"What's your favorite part?"

He stared at the line of cars ahead of them, waiting to get out the front gate. Just when she thought he wasn't going to answer, he said, "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? / Come to my arms, my beamish boy! / O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' / He chortled in his joy."

"Jabberwocky," she said. "My mom used to read that to me when I was little." She'd had such trouble with the whole idea of nonsense words. Words should _mean_ something, she'd said, it wasn't _fair_ that these didn't.

"My dad, too."

"Really? What else did he read to you?"

"Just that, really. He wasn't much for poetry normally. But he liked that one. He'd memorized it when he was a kid. I didn't even know it was from a book. I thought he'd made it up." He smiled briefly. "I thought he was the most brilliant man in the world."

It made her smile, too. She felt vaguely jealous of his memories. She loved her mom, but she often wished that she'd grown up with her dad, too. "Do you get to see him a lot?"

The smile vanished as if wiped off his face. "I haven't seen him since I was very young," he said, and it was like a door slamming between them. Elizabeth hunched over the reader again. Under normal circumstances, she might have opened up _Alice_ to start reading, but it felt like a tender spot, one she didn't want to poke too much.

"Sorry," he said after a moment. "Didn't mean to snap."

"No, it's okay. It was a personal question."

"Not that personal. You just found a raw spot."

Because she didn't know how to respond to that, she scanned the list of titles again. "What's _Rot and Ruin_ about?"

"Zombies," he said. "Does your mom let you read scary books?"

"Mom lets me read whatever I want, as long as I talk to her about it," she said automatically, and felt her throat close up at the thought of her mom. For a moment, she thought of reading it anyway, like a promise that Mom would be there soon to talk to about it. But a zombie book would have lots and lots of death, and she didn't want to read about death right now. She scrolled up through all the Terry Pratchett and picked _The Wee Free Men._ Tiffany Aching's ferocious witchy confidence would make her feel better.

* * *

><p>Reid had data on his computer, hidden away in a file inaccessible to the office network. "Why Dr. Reid," Garcia said, sitting in the chair he made her take. "This is a revelation. I thought you were going to pull a hollow book out of your bottom drawer and give me a sheaf of parchment."<p>

"Just because I prefer not to use it," he said absently, "doesn't mean I don't know enough of the math about data encryption to be able to put one together if I want." He plugged in the flash drive she handed in and started moving files over.

"It's a snazzy little lockup, considering," she told him. "Obviously, I could improve it."

He shot her a sideways smirk. "Could you?"

"Papa Bear," she said, buffing her nails on her bodice, "I can improve anything."

"Papa Bear?" he asked. "That's new."

"Anybody who stands guard over their baby like that gets to be Papa Bear," she said.

His fingers stilled on the mouse. "She's hardly a baby anymore," he said, feeling the familiar pressure on his heart of all the years he'd lost with Elizabeth and Emily. He'd gotten used to it, accepted it even, because that was the way things had to be, but it was still there.

"She may be almost grown up, but she'll always be your baby," the tech said firmly. "This I know."

He sighed and unplugged the drive, passing it over. She took it, but instead of bounding to her feet, she sat in the chair a few minutes more, twiddling the drive between her fingers. Reid had just opened his mouth to ask if she wanted a hand up when she asked in a small voice,

"How - um - how is she?"

He straightened. "Emily, you mean."

"Not right now. Obviously, she's not in such a good place right now." Garcia took a breath and looked up at him, eyes anxious behind her glasses. "But just in general. You know. Her life. And things."

He put his hands in his pockets, studying the star puzzle on his desk, trying to hear what Garcia was really asking. "She's been well," he said. "Not ideal, of course. Obviously, the situation being . . . but she's content. She has friends. Mostly from work, or the parents of Elizabeth's friends. And, you know, she has Elizabeth."

Garcia touched her own swollen belly with the tips of her fingers. "I always thought she would be a good mom," she said quietly.

"She's an amazing mom. Elizabeth is her center, her anchor, her first and last thought. She keeps Emily strong. Keeps her going."

"And you," Garcia said, dabbing her eyes. "She's got you, Reid. Don't tell me that doesn't keep her strong too."

He smiled a little. "It's helped her," he said. "Being able to write to me. Open up. She's told me things . . ." He trailed off. This was a murky area.

"She was always so tough," Garcia said, finally pushing herself out of the chair. "A little too much, maybe."

He nodded.

Garcia studied him, then reached out and gave him a hard, crunching hug. Her stomach pressed into him, and the baby kicked, as if objecting to being squashed. She giggled wetly and pulled away, rubbing her stomach again. "Hey, Jellybean, you're gonna get to meet Aunt Emily," she said. "Soon."

"Soon," Reid said, hoping it was true.

He watched Garcia go up the stairs to her office, and his gaze paused at J.J.'s window. He had a hundred and one things to do, but there was something he'd been putting off.

* * *

><p>"J.J?"<p>

She looked up.

Reid stood in her doorway. There were lines in his face, she realized. She was so used to thinking of him as her baby brother that to see the grooves around his eyes, and connected his nose and mouth, was actually a shock.

"Can I come in?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

He came in and sat in one of the chairs that faced her desk. "I wanted to thank you," he said. "For your kindness to Elizabeth even though you were angry at me. You didn't have to lend her clothes or fix her hair or any of that. You could have let Garcia do it. She would've. So. Thanks."

She stared down at the surface of her desk. "Spence, who was the first person my son came out to?"

"Me," he said.

"And who gave my daughter her nickname? Who bought her first microscope?"

"Me again."

"You're their Uncle Spence, and you've always been there for them. I'd started to give up hope that I would ever have the chance to be that person for your children. You're part of my family. And so is she."

His face worked. He looked away. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to tell you about Emily. Every day I wanted to tell you. But they needed to be safe."

J.J. scrubbed her hands over her face. "I know you didn't have a choice. If it were my kids, or Will . . . I know." She waved her hand at the computer screen. "I'll do this, and I'll put on my vest and my gun and go after Doyle, and do anything else that's needed. For you, because it's you, and it's Emily, and if either one of you asked me to tap a vein, I would probably ask, 'How many pints?'"

His face relaxed.

J.J. wasn't finished. "But right now, right this very second, I need to do all of that at a far distance from you."

He sat still, absorbing that. "Okay," he said in a low voice. "Honestly, if our roles were reversed - okay."

She nodded, and it felt as if the motion might break her head off her neck.

He got to his feet and started toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he hesitated. "J.J.?"

She lifted her head.

"I thought you might ask, but you didn't. She does miss us. You. Everyone. She told me once it was like having her heart cut out to leave us. And the way she left, knowing what kind of questions we would have . . . it was like she could still feel it beating somewhere far away." He looked over. "Before this, the closest she ever came to just saying _fuck it _and coming back was when Rossi died."

Sudden tears stung J.J's eyes. She remembered standing at Rossi's funeral Mass, looking around at the people in the pews, hoping to see a familiar face. Hoping that Emily would love them enough to come back for that.

But according to Reid's profile of Doyle, she'd loved them all enough to stay away.

* * *

><p>Although the book was very good, Elizabeth couldn't concentrate on it. Her eyes kept drooping with tiredness, and her insides felt hollow with hunger, both of which made it hard to sink into her book the way she liked. She blinked a few times, trying to keep herself awake, and looked over at Aiden. "You shouldn't text while driving," she said.<p>

Aiden glanced over. "Which is why I'm doing it at a stoplight." He waved the phone at the red light.

"Who're you texting?"

"My girlfriend," he said, turning back to the phone.

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Yep."

"What's her name?"

There was a _zhwoop_ sound as he sent the text off. "Marissa."

"Is she pretty?"

The light turned green, and he set his phone in the cup holder before hitting the gas. "Yep."

"Do you live together?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Are you sure you don't have any older brothers or sisters?"

"No, it's just me."

"Really. Because you've got the annoying little-sister thing _down_."

She subsided, blushing, but he grinned at her.

His keys jangled as they turned a corner. Elizabeth glanced at them and saw a round copper disc dangling from his key ring. She frowned, trying to make out the design. It had something engraved on one side, a quote, but she couldn't read the words. It twirled and she saw the other side, also engraved, with some kind of symbol . . . a shamrock?

"Hey," he said, drawing her attention. "I was just teasing about the annoying little sister thing."

"I know," she said.

"Is it your mom?" He looked over at her. "You know, Elizabeth, it's going to be okay. I bet you'll see her sooner than you think."

She gave him a weak smile and looked out the window again.


	17. Chapter 16

_You know, what I did wasn't anything that Doyle himself wouldn't've done, if he'd had time to arrange it. He had to have known Declan would be vulnerable, if he were ever killed or jailed. Faking his death to protect him, hell, that just makes good sense. Can't hunt a dead kid, right? _

_If he'd set it up himself, Doyle would have gotten out of prison and gone to retrieve his son. Like Wart after he pulled the sword out of the stone, Declan would have been transformed from a normal kid back into the crown prince of a corrupt empire._

_But he didn't set it up; I did._

* * *

><p>Doyle came back in the room, putting a phone into his pocket. "Your old team is running around like a lot of little bunnies," he said. "Should I be listening for the sounds of the white charger?"<p>

"I would," she said, vaguely hoping the threat would push him closer to the edge. He smirked at her, killing that hope. She sighed and dropped her head back, letting her eyes slide closed as if bored or tired. "Look, Ian, are you ever going to do anything but stand around and talk? Because honestly, you keep waking me up."

"And you need your beauty sleep," he said, regarding her. "You'd never be able to seduce me now."

"Don't be so sure," she said. "I'm told Cleopatra and Mata Hari weren't much to look at either."

"Think of yourself as Mata Hari, do you?"

"If the stiletto fits."

He nodded. "I suppose you think it was those profiling skills that got you into my bed. Mmm? You looked at me and you knew by the way I walked and talked what would push my buttons."

"You can't argue with the results."

"True enough." He moved closer to her, close enough that she had to put her head all the way back in order to keep looking him in the eyes. The gun at his hip was less than a foot away. "You got in my head, Lauren. You've never left it, not for twenty-two years. Rummaged around in there, took what you liked, then settled in for a good long stay. You proud?"

She smiled her most infuriating smile. "To have put you away? Hell, yeah."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth dreamed strange dreams, like swimming through Jello. Every so often, Aiden's voice trickled in.<p>

". . . crashed out on the couch, dead to the world. . . . been a big day for her. . . . no trouble. Yeah, I heard she gave your boys hell, but I've got something they don't. Manly good looks and devastating personal charm." A laugh. ". . . takes after her mother. . . . No, not yet. I can't . . . She'll want to check in with her dad when she wakes . . ."

Sleep dragged her under again. She floated just under its surface, thinking that she should really wake up and find out . . . find out something. Something to do with a phone call. Somebody calling. She didn't know. She was so drowsy.

"Elizabeth?" A hand touched her back.

She jackknifed to a sitting position and threw a punch straight from her shoulder.

"Whoa!" a voice wheezed. "Friend!"

Her heart thudded in the panicky way it does when you wake up too suddenly. She was sitting on a couch in a living room, a green blanket tangled around her legs. The light slanting in through the windows told her it was late afternoon.

Aiden stood a few feet away, rubbing his side with a grimace of his face. She remembered the punch she'd thrown. "Oh my god, I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

"Yeah. You just grazed me." He dropped his hand. "Hey, relax. I'm a large, semi-muscular man. I can take a punch from a thirteen-year-old girl."

She forgot to feel embarrassed and narrowed her eyes. "I have a purple belt in tae kwon do."

"And clearly well earned. Now, before you tried to break half my ribs, I was gonna ask if you were hungry."

"A little," she said. Her traitorous stomach growled hugely. She blushed. "Did my dad call?"

His grin softened and got sympathetic. "Not yet." He plucked his phone off his belt. "You want to call him?"

She nodded. He dialed and handed her the phone, then left the room.

* * *

><p>Reid's phone rang, and he answered without looking at the screen. "This is Reid."<p>

"Dad?" said a tentative voice.

"Hey," he said, surprised. "Elizabeth. Hi. What is it?"

"Did you find Mom yet?"

"Oh. Sweetheart." He set down his dry-erase marker and rubbed his neck, sore from hours of poring over maps. "No, I would have called first thing."

"But it's been hours. You mean you don't even have any leads?"

"A few."

"And?"

"We're following up. Libs, it doesn't work like TV. This is a long and painstaking process."

She didn't say anything.

He sat on the edge of the table. "Look, I know you're frustrated at not knowing anything, but right now there's nothing concrete to tell. When there is, I'll call you, I promise."

"Okay," she mumbled.

"All right. How are you? What've you been doing?"

"I slept."

"Yeah? That sounds a good idea. You've had a long couple of days. Did you eat anything?"

"Aiden's making something, I think."

"You're in luck, then. He - " Simons caught his attention, pointing at something on his tablet and shaking his head. Reid's stomach sank. "Look, honey, I need to go. Um. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

". . . Kay. Bye."

"Bye." He disconnected, feeling frustrated and helpless, and went to see which lead hadn't panned out this time.

"Was that Elizabeth?" Garcia asked when he was done.

"Yes."

"Short conversation."

"What do you suggest I say? That we've got nothing? Dead ends all around?" He jabbed a finger at the board, black with X's where various possibilities had been ruled out. "That'll make her feel great."

She just looked at him. He sighed. "Sorry. I shouldn't snap."

"Well, no, you shouldn't. But really, you've got it the worst right now. I mean, we love Prentiss, but none of us are _in_ love with her."

His mouth fell open. He closed it. Swallowed. "How long have you known?"

"What time is it?" She checked her tablet. "About four-thirty. . . . So yeah, fourteen years."

He ducked his head and busied himself gathering up the dry-erase markers again.

She smiled at him. "Can I make a suggestion?"

"You can make it," he said.

"Elizabeth."

"Yes?"

"I think you should call her every so often."

"To say what? We've ruled out something else?"

"You don't need to go into details. Just let her hear your voice. It would make her feel better." When he didn't say anything, she put one hand on her hip. "Listen, you have something to do, at least. She just has to sit there and wait. That grinds at you, Reid. You would not believe."

He let out his breath. "Maybe I will."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth hung up and sighed deeply. <em>That<em> had been less than reassuring. And he'd sounded so distracted . . . although maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he was working so hard at finding her mom that he couldn't think of anything else.

She looked around. She was in a living room, messy but comfortable. Besides the couch with its saggy cushions, there was a recliner, a TV, and a bookshelf well-stocked with DVDs and books. On the wall opposite the TV, there was a framed movie poster that showed a man in chain mail and a crown, along with a grubby-looking servant, with the caption, "Are you suggesting coconuts migrate?"

She frowned at that. She recognized the reference, of course. But something about the poster's presence struck her as odd.

She went over to the window and peered out. But all she saw was an apartment building - another apartment building, because they were in one as well, on the second floor.

She suddenly realized that she had no real idea where she was. Virginia, Maryland, maybe even the District itself? Because she'd been asleep for the last part of the journey, she had no indicators like highway exits or major roads to orient herself. It made her feel as if she were nowhere at all. She shivered.

In fact, the last thing she remembered, she'd been in the front seat of his car.

"Aiden?" she said, walking in the direction he'd gone. She found herself in a kitchen.

"Yeah?" he said from the depths of a cabinet.

"How did I get here?"

He looked over the top of the door at her. "Car."

"No, from the car to the couch."

The cabinet produced a stovetop griddle. "I carried you."

She felt her face heat. "You did? I didn't wake up?"

"You were tired." He set a mixing bowl on the counter next to the griddle, then opened another cabinet.

"You could've woken me up."

He paused in what he was doing and looked at her. "For what it's worth, I did shake you a couple of times, and not gently. You were really out. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable."

She bit her lip, feeling stupid. He'd been trying to be nice. "It's just disorienting, is all," she muttered. "Never mind."

He studied her a moment longer, then turned to the refrigerator. "So what'd your dad say?" he asked, setting a package of deli ham on the counter.

"No news."

"I'm sorry." Eggs joined the ham. "These things take time."

"That's what he said." She sighed. "_Zhizn' prozhit' - ne pole pereyti."_

"What is that, Czech?" He added milk, butter, and cheese to the counter and closed the fridge.

"Russian. It means, um, life isn't like walking across a meadow. Basically, nothing's easy. Tetya Iolante used to say that."

"And who's Tetya Iolante?"

"She was our neighbor when I was little. She took care of me when Mom was working. She'd emigrated from Groznyy. That's in Russia."

"Yeah, I figured." He pulled a bag of flour and a container of salt out of another cabinet.

"Mom says it was a good thing that she could speak Russian too or she'd've thought I was possessed when I started talking." She bit her lip. "In linguistic terms, I'm what's called a simultaneous bilingual, because I have two first languages that were acquired naturally via my environment. Are you familiar with the Critical Period Hypothesis?"

"I've heard of it." He sliced a chunk of butter off the end of the stick, dropped it in a bowl, and put that in the microwave. "Basically, babies learn languages much more easily than older kids or adults because their brain is wired that way at the time."

"Basically, yes," she said, a little disappointed that she didn't get to show off her knowledge.

The microwave beeped. "Get that, would you?" he asked. He was filling a water glass. "So you speak Russian like a native because you were still young enough?"

"Yes." She got the bowl of melted butter out and set it next to the milk. "My French is good, but I know I still have a little accent because I didn't start learning until I was older. Your English doesn't have an accent. When did you learn?"

"At the same time as I learned French," he said. "My mother spoke both. I guess that makes me a - what'd you call it?"

"Simultaneous bilingual."

"Yeah, that." He shot her a crooked, sideways grin. "Except unlike you, I didn't go after any more, not to fluency. I know a little Italian, a couple of words in Chinese, but I can't carry on what you'd call an entire conversation in either of them."

She studied him. "After you came to this country, did you grow up in a multilingual neighborhood? Perhaps a large urban center?"

He got out a cutting board. "I wish. I grew up in Iowa."

"Huh," she said softly. Maybe he'd picked up Italian in France. They did share a common border. Although now that she thought about it, he'd never really answered her when she'd asked which country he'd come to the U.S. from.

French, English, Italian, Chinese. There was something about that combination that bothered her. Like she'd heard it before.

"So, Tetya Iolante," he said, laying out the ham and slicing it into strips. "Is she still around to practice your Russian with? Back in Atlanta?"

Elizabeth hugged her elbows and stared fixedly at the refrigerator. "Her visa expired. She got deported."

The sounds of his movements paused. "That must've been rough."

"It was a long time ago. I was four."

He said gently, "Elizabeth, just because you're little doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to lose somebody. I think it's worse, because you don't understand why."

She looked down at her toes and didn't answer.

An egg cracked against the side of the mixing bowl. She glanced up in time to see him shake in flour directly from the bag. "You didn't measure," she said, scandalized.

"I don't have to measure," he said, whisking it together.

"But you won't get the proportions right," she protested, wincing as he splashed milk directly from the jug into the bowl.

"If I put in too much flour, I'll add more milk, a little extra water. Another egg if I really miscalculated." He eyeballed his mixture, then tilted the water glass over the bowl.

"What are you making anyway?"

"Ham and cheese crepes," he said, drizzling the melted butter into the bowl and then adding salt. "Crepes are like a really thin kind of pancake - "

She squeaked. "I know what they are! Can you show me? What did you do?"

He looked up in surprise. "You want to learn how to make them?"

"Yes!" She scooted over, leaning over his arm to study the batter. He elbowed her aside, gently.

"Okay, okay," he said with a laugh in his voice. "But give me room."

She watched closely as he whisked the batter together - "It looks watery." "It's not watery." "I think you need more flour." "I do not need more flour. Who's giving this lesson anyway?" - poured the batter on the griddle - "I told you it was watery. Look how thin it is." "It's supposed to look like that." - filled it with cheese and ham while the second side cooked - "Is the cheese going to melt before it burns?" "For Chrissake, trust me, I make these all the time." - and finally folded it into a neat half-circle. "_Et voila_," he said, handing her the plate. "_Bon appetit."_

"Thank you for the lesson," she said politely. It had been very enjoyable and she only thought about her parents every four or five seconds.

"You're welcome," he said, pouring batter on the griddle to cook his own. "Eat that, then you can try cooking some yourself."

It was delicious. Elizabeth was attempting to estimate from memory how much flour and milk he'd used when he came to the table with his own crepe. "You know you're losing one of your butterflies?"

She caught the barrette before it fell out of her hair and into her half-eaten crepe. "Thanks." She investigated the other one, found it hanging by a couple of hairs, and pulled it out, laying them both next to her plate. She made a face. "Short hair is gonna suck."

"It'll grow," he said, rather heartlessly in her opinion.

"I know it'll grow," she grumbled. "But right now, it looks awful."

"Believe it or not, you're not the only person who's ever done something insane to their hair."

"I didn't do it," she protested. "And it's different for boys anyway."

"Not that different. When I was in first grade, I gave myself the worst haircut known to man. I looked like a dog with mange. My mom had to practically shave my head to get it even again."

"Why would you do that?"

"You sure you want to hear this story?"

"Mhm." It couldn't be as bad as having your mom chop your hair off so you'd pass for a boy.

He nodded, with a well-you-asked-for-it look on his face. "It was my first day of school in Iowa. Actually, my first day anywhere. I'd never been in a normal school before."

"Why not?"

"I guess you could say I was homeschooled. So when I joined the class, I was the original sore thumb. Funny clothes, unpronounceable name, weird accent, and of course, my stupid hair. Shoulder-length curls," he told her. "Pale blond. Picture that in front of all these oh-so-American kids. You can guess what happened."

Elizabeth nodded. "You got beat up."

"Pounded," he confirmed. "At lunch. So I go in and tell the teacher, and the boys who did it get detention."

"Uhoh," Elizabeth said.

"Mhm. After school, I got pounded again. The first boys' friends. Bruises on top of bruises."

For Elizabeth, it had been the girls, whispering behind their hands, cutting her mean eyes when she knew the answer before they did. Pinches in the lunch line, jabs in the back with a sharpened pencil. Then when they needed help with their math homework, suddenly all nicey-nice. It had been such a relief when she'd jumped enough grades that the girls stopped seeing her as a threat and started seeing her as a sweet little pet - annoying in its own way, but not as painful.

"I sat there on the sidewalk," Aiden continued, "aghast and bleeding. I couldn't believe it. Nobody'd ever done me that way before. I went home and told my mom I fell walking home. I don't think she was fooled, but she had enough to deal with. I went upstairs and looked at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what they hated so much. I couldn't change the accent, not right away. I couldn't do anything about the clothes, because I'd asked. But I could change the hair."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. I took my mother's scissors and hacked off every last curl."

"And then your mom had to shave your head."

"So instead of being called Girly-Boy, I was immediately re-christened Cancer Kid." He grinned at her. "It could be worse. You've still got hair."

She pictured Aiden as a little boy with big, blue eyes and long platinum blond curls, beat up on his first-ever day of school.

Her fork paused mid-air, loaded with the last bite of crepe.

"Elizabeth? Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Your crepe all right?"

She put it in her mouth and forced herself to chew. "Great." She swallowed. "Um, where's the bathroom?"

* * *

><p>"I could do your job," Doyle said, his hand dropping to the gun still at his hip. "It's not so hard. I could tell you what you're thinking right now."<p>

"What's that?" Emily asked, trying to keep her eyes away from the way his fingertips brushed over the grip.

"You want me to kill you," he said. "Before your girl gets here. Cheat me of what I've been dreaming about ever since I found out about her." He caressed the curve of the trigger guard through the holster. "Tell me, Lauren, why would I do that?"

When she didn't answer, he drew his gun. "Go ahead, profiler," he said softly, settling his grip. "See if your skills have rusted up over the years. Read my mind by the way I move my head. Make me kill you."

She looked at the barrel of the gun, and then up into his eyes. With the team, whenever they staged some stunt to draw the unsub out, they did so in the awareness that this unsub might realize that his buttons were being pushed, and it was always a gamble as to how that would affect his reactions.

She used to say it didn't matter if he knew his buttons were being pushed deliberately. As long as they were the right ones.

She leaned forward, as much as she could with her arms fastened to the pipe, and breathed, "Don't forget who knew about Declan."


	18. Chapter 17

Elizabeth closed the bathroom door and leaned back against it, trying to calm the sudden crazed-rabbit thumping of her heart. It was a coincidence, she told herself. It had to be a coincidence.

_I told his dad once that he was going to get the snot kicked out of him at school for that hair, and his dad said, "Good. It'll teach him to be a fighter."_

Her mom had said that, just this morning.

Lots of little boys had blond curly hair, and lots of little boys got beat up, her rational brain argued.

Did lots of people have a shamrock on their keychain?

Maybe he believed in luck.

Did lots of people know French, English, Italian, and Chinese? The same languages Mom had mentioned.

But, no, he'd said he wasn't fluent in all of those. And Aiden was from France, not Ireland . . . no.

She'd assumed he was from France, because of his name and the fact that he'd learned French as one of his first languages. He'd never told her which country he actually was born in.

He couldn't be Declan Doyle. He couldn't. He worked for the _FBI_, he worked with her dad . . . all those similarities had to be coincidence.

She pushed herself away from the door, intending to pace across the tiny bathroom. Her foot brushed something soft. She looked down. It was a dirty sock.

She wrinkled her nose, then froze. Her hand crept up behind her back and twisted the lock in the doorknob.

A dirty sock. The worn couch. The way Aiden didn't have to look for the flour or the eggs or anything. The Monty Python poster.

This wasn't an FBI safe house, furnished and decorated by a government agency, sitting empty until somebody had to use it. This was Aiden's own house. The conversation she'd heard in her dreams flooded into her head: _Gave your boys hell_. His arrogant laugh as he bragged about how he wouldn't have any trouble with her.

Aiden was Declan. And he was working for his dad.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. What was she going to do?

She was all by herself, in the apartment of Doyle's son, who was probably going to take her to his dad any minute now. Or maybe Doyle would come here. And her mom's face would be the last thing she saw before -

Elizabeth let out a strangled sob.

And her mom, her mom would have to watch, because that was what Doyle did before he killed his victims, he made them watch. He might even blackmail or trick her father into coming to where they were and killing him too.

An annihilator, from the Latin _nihil, _nothing. He made families into nothing.

But if she got away -

How? She couldn't steal Aiden's phone to call her dad. It was hooked to his belt. She hadn't seen any sign of a landline, which only old people still had anyway. She had to get herself out, then.

There was a little window above the bathtub. It showed a patch of sky and the scribbly black branches of a winter-bare tree. She crossed the bathroom on shaky legs and clambered onto the rim of the bathtub. She leaned forward and planted her hands against the window frame, peering down, and felt her stomach drop. The apartment was on the second floor. It might as well have been the depth of the Grand Canyon, for all the possibility of jumping out and landing unharmed.

She lifted her eyes to the tree, gauging the distance. Thin tips of branches scratched at the glass. Were they thick enough to support her weight, closer to the trunk?

She leaned back, focusing on the window itself. It might be just wide enough for a ruler-shaped girl to slide through and fall all the way down, two stories to the ground.

Or stretch herself out, catch the branches, crawl down the tree.

Her breath came in short bursts.

She got down and went to look into the mirror. She looked very pale, a little green even, her chopped-up hair falling messily into her eyes. She looked exactly as terrified as she felt.

She was all by herself. They'd never made plans for this, beyond _escape, any way you can. _She didn't have her mom or her dad to protect her or tell her what to do. No snake tattoos or lip rings or vicious killer attack butterflies to make her tough. Just Elizabeth.

"Go away, Big Green Monster," she whispered to herself in the mirror.

She closed her eyes, waiting.

The knock at the bathroom door almost sent her rocketing into the air. "Elizabeth? You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been in there awhile."

She swallowed. "I'm okay." It was incredible, how steady her voice was. It was also incredible how thin the door seemed right now.

"Are you sure?"

"I'll be right out, honest."

"Okay." His footsteps retreated from the door.

She looked back at herself in the mirror and whispered, "And don't come back until I say so."

She climbed back on the rim of the tub and leaned down to flush the toilet. While it was whooshing and gurgling, she pushed at the sash. It resisted, and her stomach froze. She pushed again, and it popped up with a screech.

Had he heard that, over the noise of the toilet?

She couldn't afford to wait around and find out. She grabbed the sill, bounced on her toes, and used the second bounce to propel herself up and out.

The frame scraped her shoulders, and her hips got stuck. In spite of her panic, she took a moment to roll her eyes. _Really?_ The long-awaited curves, _now?_

She braced one palm on the cool brick of the outside wall and stretched the other arm as far as she could. Her fingertips brushed a thick branch. She breathed out, stretched further, and managed to get a grip on it. She let go of the wall, grabbed the branch with both hands, and yanked as hard as she could. Her hips popped free like a cork from a bottle.

Half a second later, she found herself wrapped around the branch like a monkey, choking on a scream. The branch seesawed up and down with her sudden weight, creaking ominously. "Don't break," she breathed. "Please please please don't break."

She was extremely far off the ground. Farther than it had looked from the window. The branch's motion slowed, but it was still bent down further than she liked.

She inched along the branch to the trunk, and then down the branches, freezing at every creak or wobble. The drop from the last branch to the ground was a good deal farther than she liked, and even though she rolled, contact with the ground wrenched her ankles and her knees. She took a precious second to catch her breath and assess her situation.

Two identical patches on either hip burned where the frame had scraped, and her knees throbbed where they'd knocked against the brick on the way out, and her shoulders were sore from taking the brunt of her weight. A locked door wouldn't keep Aiden ignorant of her escape forever. Soon enough, he would figure out she was gone. She had no idea where she was, and the apartment complex was a rabbit warren, all featureless windows and identical stairs.

But she was out of his apartment. That was the first step. Second step: get away.

She scrambled to her feet, bolting for the sound of traffic.

* * *

><p>Doyle knelt before her in a parody of a man proposing marriage. The cool steel of his gun brushed her temple. Emily knew that however cool and detached he looked, he was wobbling so close to the edge that one forceful nudge would topple him right over.<p>

That nudge, as it always had, took the form of his son.

"I _know_ who knew about Declan," Doyle said. "Have you missed the point of all this? Thought you were smart. I know full well - " He had to stop, face twisted in rage and sorrow. "My beamish boy. I know who sold him out."

"Oh, I didn't sell him out, Ian," Emily said.

The gun pressed into her skin, hard enough to dent. "Don't you lie. I saw the pictures. You turned my boy over to some monster that blew his brains out in a dirty damned warehouse and then took pictures."

"I - "

_I took the pictures. It was my hand on the gun. I killed your son._

The words lay on her tongue like candies, waiting to be said. The bullet waited only for the pressure of his finger on the trigger. Her heart roared in her ears, as if trying to get as many more beats as possible accomplished before death stopped it.

_Elizabeth. _Her brave, beautiful girl. Would she be brave enough for this?

She would have her father, Emily told herself. Spencer, who would have to tell their child that her mother was dead. Spencer, who would have to labor under the weight of yet another loss, while trying to be strong for their daughter.

Spencer Reid, who would never let one of Doyle's men near Elizabeth. Not within a hundred miles. Not within a thousand.

What was she doing?

"What?" he breathed. "You what?"

_What the hell was she doing?_

"I didn't sell him out," she said again, her voice oddly fragmented and choked. She bit back the words - _It was me - _swallowed them, pushed them so far down into her own darkness that they would never resurface.

His lip curled. "Woman's trick," he said. "I thought that was beneath you, Lauren. But there's nothing beneath you, now is there?"

There was a strange sound in the basement, a gasping, choking heave of breath, and it wasn't until Emily tasted the clean, uncoppered salt in her mouth that she realized they were her own sobs.

* * *

><p>As she'd thought, a major road ran along the front of the apartment complex. Elizabeth strode along, head up, trying to look as if she belonged, as if she knew where she was going.<p>

Her brain scrambled, trying to work out her next step. Aiden knew this area, and she didn't. He could find her quickly.

Something added itself to the noise of traffic, a deep whooshing rumble. Her heart leapt.

The public bus.

She broke into a run, headed for the nearest stop. The junk in her jacket pocket bounced against her hip.

She reached the bus stop just as the bus's doors began to close. They stopped halfway, then creaked open again. She jumped aboard and pulled out the crumpled paper airplane/Metro pass that Cliff LaMontagne had left in her pocket. "Is there . . . anything left . . . on this?" she panted, flattening it out with her hand as best she could.

The bus driver gave her a deeply disgusted look. She hoped the sweaty flush on her face could pass for an abashed blush. Maybe he'd have pity on her. Maybe pigs would fly.

She glanced in the giant rearview mirror. No Aiden coming down the sidewalk, no beat-up green sedan on the road.

He managed to get the card to read. "You're short seventy-five cents," he said.

She dug around in her pocket and produced two quarters, a dime, and three nickels. He looked as if she'd canceled Christmas, and nodded for her to feed them into the machine. It beeped, grudgingly allowing her the privilege of riding public transportation.

"Sit down, kid," he said, closing the doors with a wheezing rumble.

She dropped into the first open seat. Okay. First and second steps accomplished. What was her third? Find a safe place to go. But where? Where was _she?_

The bus stopped at a light. She pressed her face against the window, trying to read the street signs at the intersection. The bus driver snarled something over his shoulder about smearing his window, but she didn't listen. In her head, the D.C. metro area street map she'd long ago memorized had snapped itself into place. She knew where she was, and she knew where she was going to go.

* * *

><p><em>It was built in 1934, in what's generally known as the Craftsman or Arts and Crafts style popularized by George Stickey. It has three bedrooms, two and a half baths, built-in bookshelves in the living room, and countless nooks and crannies. It's very run-down, but I sent pictures to Morgan and he says it could be brought back up to livable standards easily enough. He and his family are coming for a visit next week and he promises to introduce me to some of his old contracting friends. He says - threatens? - that he'll come visit much more often, to help me fix it up.<em>

_Everybody wonders why I suddenly bought a house, after so long in my condo, especially such a big one that requires so much work. I said things about sound investments and maybe rehabbing it for resale, or renting it out the way Morgan used to do. Things that made sense to them._

_I couldn't tell them the real reason - that I walked up the steps onto that big porch and I could picture Elizabeth, perched on one of the railings, reading. I went inside and I could picture you drinking your morning coffee in the breakfast nook. I could see my books on the shelves, Sergio sleeping on the windowsill. Elizabeth trying out some new recipe in the kitchen, you working on your laptop in the living room._

_That house, as shabby as it is, holds the possibility of everything I want._

* * *

><p>In Hotch's office, Reid paced from one window to the other, his narrow shoulders folded inward, hands pushed deep into his pockets. Every so often, he pulled his phone out and looked at it, as if he might have missed its ringing while clutching it in a white-knuckle grip.<p>

As he stood in the door, Hotch reflected that his friend looked like any number of parents they'd encountered over the years, waiting for their children to be found.

"Reid?"

His head jerked around. "Elizabeth - ?"

"Chevalier would have called you directly," Hotch said.

Reid swallowed. "Yes. I know. Given traffic patterns at this time of day, it would take him at least fifteen minutes to get to my house from his apartment, and it hasn't been that long yet."

"Are you sure she would have gone there?"

"I don't know," Reid said blankly. "I - I don't know anything for sure."

"It's an unfamiliar city. A place she's never been."

"Two days before I moved in, she wrote to me and said she'd figured out my new address. And she was right. I never even told her which part of the D.C. metro area my house was in, but she'd narrowed it down from little things I said in my emails. Proximity to public transport, distance from work, local landmarks like the park and the library. Then she used public property databases to identify the specific house." His face softened with pride, and Hotch felt the disorienting jolt of seeing the younger man as a father.

"It sounds like Garcia may have competition," he observed.

"That's what Emily said." Reid pressed his lips together. "It's being watched, Hotch. I told Emily, but I never said anything to Elizabeth because I didn't want to scare her. Background checks on the contractors during renovation turned up Doyle's spies twice. The alarm was set off three times in the first week, my mail's been read, and I've seen unmarked cars circling the neighborhood five times since I moved."

"Chevalier will get there," Hotch said.

"I know. I'm hanging onto that." He rubbed his eyes, breathing in and out. "But that's not why you came in here," he said, fingers still pressed into his eyes. "What is it?"

"Morgan called. He has the information from the CIA. He also convinced Atlanta PD's internal affairs department to turn over what they had on Waites. Apparently, he was already under investigation, even before he took Elizabeth out of class."

Reid dropped his hands, his eyes sharp. "And?"

"There may be something that can lead us to Emily."

* * *

><p>Her dad's house was the third in line on a quiet neighborhood street. She stood at the base of the porch steps, looking up.<p>

She knew he'd found it in foreclosure, horrifically run down, and had enjoyed himself researching period-appropriate renovation. She'd read some of the books herself, and debated some points of period accuracy versus modern conveniences with him over email. He'd sent pictures, and she'd pored over them until it felt as if she could walk in the front door.

But as with so many things to do with D.C. and her father, there was a difference between what she'd imagined and the reality.

The yard was bare brown dirt, speckled with grass seed. Plastic ribbon strung between raw wood stakes formed a temporary fence. The house itself looked dull and squat in the dying afternoon light. The windows were all shut tight, the curtains drawn. It looked as impregnable as a fortress.

A rush of wind rustled the leaves on the small, newly-transplanted bushes that lined the walk. It chilled the back of her neck, and she tugged the hood of her borrowed jacket up, zipping it up tight.

She mounted the steps and paused to look at the ornate front door knocker. She'd found it online and sent her dad the link. Not precisely period-accurate, but so cool. "Jesus, honey," her mother had said upon seeing it on the computer screen, "that thing looks like Marley's ghost is about to pop out."

"Thus the basis of its appeal, Mom," she'd said.

She touched her fingertips to the brass and wondered what would happen if she knocked. Nothing, probably; her dad was still at Quantico. She tried the knob. It refused to turn. Locked. Of course it was locked. That had been Dad's first priority, making sure the house was safe from intrusion. Her mom had nodded approvingly as she read the computer screen. "It's a profiler thing," she'd told Elizabeth. "You noticed we've never once lived in a place without at least security bars?"

Elizabeth herself had skimmed those parts of the emails, uninterested in alarm systems and treated window glass. Why hadn't she remembered them on the bus?

In the window next to the door, the blinds twitched. Sudden hope leapt in her stomach. But no human hand had moved the curtains. Instead -

"Sergio?" she whispered.

Her father's cat slithered up onto the sill. When he spotted her, he arched his back and opened his mouth wide to hiss. She edged back, although there was a thick pane of glass between them. He hissed again-she could almost hear it-and settled himself arthritically, eyes still slitted. The message couldn't have been clearer. _Go away._

She rested her back against the front door, swallowing tears. What had she been thinking, coming here? She'd wasted the bus pass. She could have gotten so much further away. Could have transferred buses all the way across the city, until she found a way to call her dad.

She blinked hard and shook herself. Enough self-pity. It was almost five, there had to be people home. She could go knock on doors and ask to use a phone. At least her dad would know where she was, and she could tell him all about Aiden and who he _really_ was-

With that thought to give her energy, she was halfway down the walk again when a car screeched to a stop in the street. A beat-up green sedan.

Her first thought was to run, but he was out of the car already. "Elizabeth!"

Her exit blocked, she turned and ripped out one of the stakes that defined the edge of the walk, pointing it at him. It was much shorter than a standard bo staff, but reassuringly solid all the same. "Stay away," she warned.

He stopped dead a few inches from the dirty, sharp point. "Put that down."

"No way." She jabbed, and he jumped back a step.

"What is this, Elizabeth? Why did you run? My bathroom window's eighteen feet off the ground. You could have killed yourself."

"Don't pretend like you care," she spat. He had pretended, really well. He'd fooled her and he'd fooled her dad and the whole FBI, but he'd slipped up when he told her those things about when he was little. Probably to gain her confidence. Backfired, hadn't it? She bared her teeth. "Stay _away."_

"I do care about you. And your dad is incredibly worried, did you realize?"

The edges bit into her hands, and she loosened her grip, remembering Master Tom telling her over and over in practice that she was holding too tight. "I bet he doesn't even know. I bet you told him I'm safe and sound, didn't you?"

"No. I called him the moment I realized you were gone. He was the one who said you might've come here."

Elizabeth's throat closed up. Her dad had sent Aiden right to her, not knowing what he would do.

His eyes went to the sharp point again. "Elizabeth, put that down and we can call him."

"No," she said.

"Okay, or I can call him right now and - " One of his hands moved toward his jacket pocket.

"No!" she shrieked. Like she was going to fall for that? Going for his phone, yeah, right. He was probably trying to draw his gun.

"O-kay," he said slowly. "I won't do that, then. Listen, Elizabeth, I don't know what you're thinking, so you're going to have to tell me what I can do to make you put down that stick and come with me to someplace that's safe." He glanced around and looked back at her, too quickly for her to swing the stick at his head. "Because we're not safe here. We're much too exposed."

"I'm not safe with you, no matter where we go," she said. "You think I'm a stupid little girl, but I know all about you. I know this is all your fault." The last word came out through gritted teeth, as furious as a curse. "_Declan."_

He went still. "What? How did you - ?"

"You're Declan," she accused. "You're Doyle's son."

He took in a deep breath and let it out. "Yes. I am. And you're the daughter of Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid, which means I would cut out my liver with nail clippers before I let my father lay a finger on you."

Elizabeth's fingers went slack with shock. Her weapon's sharp point dipped toward the ground momentarily before she swung it back up, tightening her grip. "You're lying."

"_Think_," he said. "Why would your dad put you in my hands if he didn't trust me with every bone in his body?"

"That's just because he doesn't know," she said, but her surety had started to break apart like a sandcastle. "About who you really are."

"Oh, believe me, Spencer Reid knows exactly who I am, and has from the beginning."

"That's not possible. If he did, he'd never - "

But Aiden had gone tense, his breathing shallow. "Elizabeth," he said, his voice low and lips barely moving. "I need you to do exactly what I say, right now."

"What? No."

He let out the tiniest of exasperated breaths, and then, faster than she could react, his hand shot out and grabbed the end of her weapon, yanking it toward him. Her own death-grip on the stake knocked her off her feet, and as her knees crashed into cement, the world exploded.


	19. Chapter 18

A/N: Okay, I have to deeply apologize for the long gap between posting. Especially where I left it. This chapter, frankly, kicked my butt. Trying to work on it at a conference didn't help either.

* * *

><p><em>I read what you sent. The whole master's thesis on criminal organizations with roots in domestic terrorism, all the background information, and his FBI Academy record. I read it three times through. And Reid, I think you're right.<em>

_Aiden Chevalier is Declan._

* * *

><p>Emily sat gasping, trying to catch her breath. She couldn't believe how close she'd come to forcing Doyle to kill her.<p>

He might still, she knew. He might get frustrated and just blow her head off.

She licked her lips clean of salt and leaned her head back against the pipe. _Stall him._

He was over by the door, arguing in angry whispers. "Where's the girl? She was supposed to be here by now."

"Cassavetes called ten minutes ago. He barely escaped."

"What? What the hell do you mean, escaped? It was supposed be the girl and some stupid junior agent. Take her, kill him, it's not that hard."

"Yeah, well, the girl wasn't at the safe house. Probably never had been. It was a trap."

"Fucking feds. Where was Cassavetes going?"

"Reid's house. Thought they might've holed up there."

Not in a month of Sundays would Reid have sent Elizabeth and her guard to his house. It was far too obvious. Emily dropped her eyes, trying to hide the triumph. She wasn't sure she succeeded.

Doyle glared at her. "She'll be here," he said, pointing at her. "Your girl. Then you'll see."

She waited until he turned away to smile to herself.

* * *

><p>Her knee hurt, her ears rang from the roar of two gunshots almost top of each other, and both palms stung wickedly from contact with cement. But she was alive, and she hadn't expected that.<p>

A rough hand shook her shoulder. "Elizabeth? Libs! Are you okay? Look at me, are you okay?"

She looked up into his face. "You missed."

"No, I didn't," he said. "Wait, don't - "

But she'd already turned around. There was a man lying on his stomach, quite close to them. A gun lay under his hand, and his pointer finger still curled around the trigger. His face was turned toward them, and there was a dark hole in his forehead.

His eyes were open wide. Pretty eyes. Pretty light green eyes. She'd thought they were empty before, when he'd held the knife to her side in the train, but now they really were empty, because there was nothing behind them. No life.

There was something red and glistening smeared down the wall behind him.

Aiden's arm came around her shoulders, turning her away from body. "I said don't look," he told her. "Up, get up. Run."

They ran for the car. His gun was in his free hand, and she could smell the metal, hot from being fired. When she'd scrambled into the backseat, he pushed his phone into her hands. "Keep your head down. Backup's coming, but if you hear more shots, call 911." He hit the locks and shut the door.

Partners, she remembered. The green-eyed man had a partner at Union Station. That was how they'd caught Mom.

_Keep your head down_, he'd said. She scooted to the far side of the car and pressed her head to her knees. The lock mechanism was right at eye level.

She could unlock that. Climb out the other side of the car and be gone.

She tucked her chin into her chest and breathed. What good would that do? She'd already acted on impulse so many times today. She needed to stop panicking. She needed to _think. _

Okay. She would think. Consider the facts as they pertained to both sides of the argument.

Point one: Aiden was Declan. He admitted that openly.

Point two: He had not taken her to an FBI safe house, as he'd told everyone he was doing.

Point three: . . .

She didn't have a point three.

No, wait, she did. He'd been texting in the car and talking on the phone about her. To Marissa, he said, but -

She pulled the phone out and checked the last call. _Marissa_, it said, along with the time, which matched the time when she would have been half-asleep overhearing his conversation. She scrolled back, just to be sure. There were no other conversations after one o'clock. He hadn't even known about her at one o'clock.

He could have another phone.

She navigated to the text messages. _Marissa_, it said again, although the text conversation wasn't particularly lover-like.

_You've got your patrol. Jensen and Lai are en route to your place._

_You're fucking amazing. How long?_

_I've been amazing forever. But you've got them until 1900 hrs, then Gonzalez and Loby are taking over until 0200. Got any poker IOUs or blackmail I can call in? Because I'm cleaned out._

_Try Det. Stewart and Lt. Malloy at the 3rd precinct. Owe me favors._

She turned the phone off again and tucked it into the hollow just under her chin. She wondered if Marissa really was his girlfriend or if he'd just said that in order not to have to explain about the police. She would have liked to know about the police, honestly. They must have been watching his front door while she escaped out the back.

Okay. She had two points against him. Now the arguments for.

Point one: When she had been at his mercy, asleep and vulnerable in his car, he could have taken her anywhere. He had taken her to his house, put her on his couch, and covered her up with a blanket to let her sleep.

Point two: He had given her books to read, taught her how to make crepes, talked to her, tried to be comforting. These all indicated that he cared about her well-being. Also, he'd gotten police to guard his apartment while she was there. Did you do any of that with a girl you were planning to take to her death?

Point three: He had called her dad when she'd escaped. _Claimed _he called her dad. But how else would he have known to come here?

Point four: Just now, on the sidewalk, he could have taken the stake out of her hands anytime he chose. He'd made that quite clear by using it against her at the end. But he hadn't.

Point five: He had shot the green-eyed man. Killed him before he could kill or take Elizabeth.

She pressed her forehead into the upholstery and breathed. _Do not think about those empty eyes._

Point six: Her dad trusted Aiden. He'd proved that by putting Elizabeth into his care.

Aiden contended that her father knew about his secret identity (which made it sound like Aiden was Batman or something). She had no proof of that, though. It could be another lie.

Why would her dad just randomly trust somebody he knew nothing about? His _job_ was people's terrible secrets. But he'd trusted Aiden.

_You have to trust someone_, her mom had said yesterday morning.

_I do,_ she'd said. _I trust Dad._

And Dad trusted Aiden.

A knock on the window startled a shriek out of her.

"It's okay," Aiden said through the glass. "Elizabeth. It's clear. Police caught his partner two streets from here. There were only the two of them. You can come out of there."

She bit her lip. His keys were in here with her. If she wanted, she could keep him out forever. She could even climb over the front seat and drive off, if she could figure out driving.

_You have to trust someone._

They called it a leap of faith. Now she knew why. Her stomach lurched like she was flying through the air as she reached out and unlocked the door.

He pulled it open. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah," she said shakily. Then she caught side of the woman behind him and scrambled back. "Who's she?"

"This is Marissa. It's okay. She's on the side of the angels."

"I don't know that I'd call the DCPD angels," the woman said dryly.

Then Elizabeth recognized her. "Detective O'Brien?"

The police detective who'd turned her over to her father only a few hours ago looked at her, one brow quirked. "Elizabeth. We meet again."

"You're Marissa?"

"Guilty."

She slid out of the backseat, staring. "Are you really his girlfriend?"

"Guilty again." Marissa's expression changed. "What the hell?" She grabbed Elizabeth's shoulder.

Instinctively, Elizabeth twisted, breaking her hold and whipping her fists up. "What are you doing?"

Marissa said, "Where are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Not entirely true. Her knee still throbbed, and her palms stung. But nothing to warrant the horror in Marissa's face.

"You have blood all over your shoulder."

"What?" Elizabeth twisted around, dragging her jacket up to see down the back. There was a smear of red, rapidly darkening to brown, stiffening the fabric. She couldn't think how she hadn't noticed it before. She took another mental inventory. Four limbs, ten fingers, ten toes, no bullets, no gaping wounds. "But I'm not hurt, I swear."

"It's not her blood," Aiden said. "It's mine."

She remembered then, his arm over her shoulder, turning her away from the body, and saw how he was holding his shoulder. The fabric of his coat was darker there, wetter.

"Aiden!" Marissa grabbed his hand, forcing it away, pushing his coat and suit jacket half off his shoulders.

He let her do it, but said, "Marissa, Riss, honey, it's fine. It just grazed me." His good hand rose up and gently stroked the hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of blood on her temple. "_Ma coeur_. It looks worse than it is."

Elizabeth stood on her toes to look over Marissa's shoulder and saw a shallow red line across Aiden's deltoid. His shirt and his undershirt, both torn, were stained with big reddish-brown patches. "A bullet did that?" she squeaked.

"Well, it wasn't a marshmallow," Marissa snapped, but her shoulders sagged with relief as she examined the wound. The bleeding was already slowing.

"See?" he said to Marissa as police cars pulled up, sirens shrieking. "I'll live."

"Yes, you will," she said firmly, and pulled her radio off her belt. "This is O'Brien. We have an agent wounded. We need an ambulance." She shot Aiden a look. "They're coming for the body anyway. Let them patch you up."

"Elizabeth is - "

"This place is about to be swarming with cops. Elizabeth will remain in your sight line at all times. And if need be, I will personally sit on her to keep her from sneaking off again."

Elizabeth considered this unfair. She'd gotten out of the car, hadn't she?

"You can take five minutes and get looked at."

Aiden looked down into her face and silently gave in. To Elizabeth, he said, "Do you still have my phone?"

Her fingers clenched around it. "Yes," she said warily.

"Call your dad."

"Oh." She hadn't expected that. She thought. "Um. Is he mad?"

"Well, he's not exactly jumping for joy. Especially about the second-story window part."

"Wasn't that high," she muttered to nobody in particular.

"Call him," Aiden said again, as the ambulance rolled up.

Her dad picked up on the first ring. "Aiden?"

"Hey, Dad."

"Oh, God," he said, and while she knew her dad didn't believe in organized religion, it sounded very much like a prayer. "Oh, God, Elizabeth. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, honest."

"Really."

"Yes."

"Then why are you speaking Russian? Because you only do that when you don't feel entirely safe."

She blushed. She didn't know he'd noticed that. Maybe her mom had told him.

"Elizabeth, what is it?"

She glanced at Marissa, still standing guard over her. She hadn't seen anything yet to indicate that the detective spoke Russian. Still, she lowered her voice. "Dad, do you . . . do you know who Aiden really is?"

There was a split second of silence, and then a soft, "Oh." A little louder: "Sweetheart. Is that why - How - ?"

"Dad," she pleaded.

"Yes. If what you're asking is, did I know that Aiden's father is Ian Doyle, then yes, I know."

"Aiden said you knew right from the beginning."

"Before we even met. Yes."

"And you still trust him?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I do."

"Why?"

He let out a little sigh. "I could go through everything Aiden's ever done that's told me he's not his father, but I think you're going to have to see it for yourself. Is he there?"

"Yes." No need to mention the ambulance just yet, she decided.

"Keep me on the line, and ask him about Brenna and Mickey."

"Brenna McAllister and Mickey . . . is that Michael Easter?"

"Did your mom tell you?"

"I saw it in the conference room. They were members of the families that Doyle killed."

"Well observed. But I still want you to ask him. He'll tell you. And when he does . . . listen to what he says, and how he says it. Then tell me what you conclude."

Elizabeth put the phone on mute and stepped toward the ambulance. Marissa moved over in front of her, arms crossed, brow quirked. "What's this, Houdini?"

"I'd like to talk to Aiden," she said.

Annoyingly, Marissa walked her the few feet over to the ambulance's bumper, where Aiden was just shrugging back into his torn suit jacket and coat.

"See?" he said to them. "I'm fine. I might even have a scar. It's a manly thing, a scar. I'm looking forward to that."

"You would," Marissa said.

"Hey, Elizabeth," he said. "Did you talk to your dad?"

"Yes." Elizabeth said, clutching the phone to her breastbone in case he asked for it back. "I have a question. Who are Brenna and Mickey?"

Marissa sucked in her breath.

Aiden said, "Where did you hear those names?"

"My dad. He said to ask you. So I'm asking. Who are Brenna and Mickey?"

His hand dropped to his knee. "Marissa, can you - "

"Yeah." She stepped away.

"Brenna was Brenna McAllister. Her dad was the leader of your mom's team."

"The one that put . . . him in prison," she said. She didn't want to say Doyle's name.

"Yes."

"Mickey's dad, too?"

"Yes. Mickey Easter. Brenna was eight," he said quietly. "She was a sweet kid, from all accounts. Quiet. Liked horses. Liked to draw. Mickey was older. Thirteen."

_My age_, Elizabeth thought. _Just the same as me._

"He was popular. Liked to skateboard. Played cricket and soccer."

"Did you know them?"

"I never met them. Never even knew about them until a few years ago. Long after they died." He took in a breath and let it out. "Long after my father killed them."

"How did they die?" she asked.

"I don't - "

"Please tell me."

Aiden looked away, at the little knot of cops doing crime-scene things by the side of her father's house. "He shot them."

Elizabeth looked too, unable to stop herself. The body was mostly blocked from view, though she could still see a shoe poking out, and the top of the dead man's head. Somebody stepped away and revealed the darkening stain on the side of the house. Elizabeth looked away quickly and swallowed.

Had they been shot just like that?

Aiden had been staring too, his face pale. He wrenched his eyes away and looked back at her. "To answer your question, Brenna and Mickey are the children who died in my place."

She looked down at the ground, thinking. She remembered Mrs. Barville, dead back in Atlanta. It had been her job, her mom had said. To protect them, even with her life.

It hadn't been Brenna or Mickey's job. They'd been kids. Just like her.

She lifted the phone and hit the unmute button. "Dad?"

"Did he answer your question?"

"Yes. And I get it now." She looked at Aiden, trying to say it to him as well as to her dad. "You trust him to keep me safe because you knew how he felt - feels - about them. He thinks that if he can keep me safe, he won't feel so guilty about them dying."

Aiden looked away, clearing his throat.

"Yes," her dad said.

"He doesn't have anything to feel guilty about," she said. "He's not his dad. It wasn't his fault." Trying to make up for what she'd said on the sidewalk, she added, "It was _never_ his fault."

"No," her dad said gently. "It never was."

"Okay," she said.

"Good. Can I talk to Aiden now? Because I'd quite like to know why I hear so many sirens on your end."

* * *

><p>The paramedic had cleared Aiden to go, but said he probably shouldn't drive. Elizabeth thought he might've tried anyway, except Marissa put her foot down, took his keys away, and got in the driver's seat herself, telling him that he'd need backup to look after her since he was wounded.<p>

Elizabeth considered explaining that a) she was not a baby, b) she had a purple belt in tae kwon do, and c) she wasn't about to escape again, _God_, would everybody please stop harping on that? Then she looked at Marissa's scowling face in the rearview mirror and thought that perhaps she would save the explanations, because the police detective's manner was not exactly open and encouraging.

Aiden turned around. "It's okay," he said. "She's not mad at anybody. She just gets this way when she's scared."

"I'm not scared," Marissa bit out. "I'm justifiably annoyed, because my boyfriend is damaged."

"Yeah, you'll never get the security deposit back now."

Marissa bit her lip. "Don't make me laugh, asshole." But her lips curled up at the edges.

"I always make her laugh," he told Elizabeth. "It's why she keeps me around."

"Really? Because I thought it was your manly good looks and devastating personal charm."

Marissa let out a giant snort of laughter that dissolved the remains of the scowl. "You heard him say that to me on the phone?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were asleep," Aiden said, turning red.

"No," Elizabeth said, then reconsidered. "Sort of. I kept drifting in and out." She wondered briefly if things would have been different, had she heard the whole conversation. "You talked about how I took after my mom, and I'd given somebody's boys hell - "

"Cox and Mallory," Marissa murmured.

" - but you weren't going to have any trouble with me."

"Boy, was I wrong," Aiden said. "Was that when you worked it out? Who I was?"

She shook her head. "Not right away." She told him about all the pieces, the story about his hair, the languages, and the realization that he'd taken her to his own apartment rather than an FBI safe house. "And I'd still like to know why you did _that_."

"Jesus," Aiden said, sounding genuinely shocked. "I had no idea your dad hadn't told you."

"About what?"

"I did set up a safe house," Aiden said. "But it was a fake. A decoy. I took you to my place instead, and we sent a couple of trusted agents to the safe house to lie in wait and see if any of Doyle's men turned up."

"And if they did?"

"First off, we'd have some of Doyle's men, who'd've had orders to take you to wherever your mom is," Aiden said. "More than that, your dad and I have been pretty sure for awhile that my father has somebody at Quantico, but we couldn't narrow down who they were. There aren't many people who have access to the locations of specific safe houses. If they leaked that info to Doyle . . ."

"It was a sting," Elizabeth said, hope rising up. "Did it work?"

"I don't know yet."

She bit her lip. "Do you think I screwed it up?"

"Oh, Libs. I don't know that either."

She leaned her cheek against the window, staring out at the street.

"Damn. Sorry."

She lifted her head to look at him. "About what?"

"I forgot. You prefer Elizabeth."

"Actually," she said shyly, dabbing at a smear of dirt on the knee of her sweatpants. "It would be okay if you called me Libs. If you want, I mean. I wouldn't mind."

After a moment of silence, he said, "Thank you."

It wasn't until they were back at Aiden's apartment and he was unlocking the door that she remembered a puzzle piece she hadn't mentioned to him. "Aiden?"

"Hmm?" He let Marissa in first, and kept Elizabeth from entering. "Let her clear the place."

"Can I see your keychain?"

He looked away from his scan of the area. "My keychain?"

"It has a shamrock on it."

"Ah," Aiden said, and handed her his keys.

The copper disc was smooth and warm in her fingers. She traced the engraved shamrock, then flipped it over and held it to the light.

_It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities._

She looked up. "_Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_," she said. "Chapter Eighteen."

"Smart guy, that Dumbledore," he said, taking his keys back as Marissa called out the all-clear from inside. "My father made his choices, Elizabeth. I made mine."

When she got inside, Elizabeth said, "Excuse me one moment, please." Without waiting for an answer, she went directly to the bathroom and threw up everything she'd eaten that day, and probably a little more besides.

She thought of the empty green eyes and the wet red stain and retched again.

"So it finally hit her," she heard Marissa say from the door of the bathroom. "I was wondering when it would."

Aiden sighed and rubbed Elizabeth's shoulder. "_Pauvre petite,_" he said. "I _told _you not to look."


	20. Chapter 19

_You know what really gets me sometimes? After a lifetime of hardcore feminism, my whole world for the past fourteen years has revolved around a man._

_Has he found me?_

_Is he still looking for me?_

_How can I protect us from him?_

_Everything. Every thought, it seems, has him at the base._

_One way or another, every momentous change of this lifetime, of Nora Brewster's existence, has been due to Ian Doyle. And if the opposite of love isn't hate, but indifference, I'm sure he'd be just fucking delighted that, twenty-two years after I turned him over to the law, I still can't get him out of my head._

* * *

><p>Reid sat in Hotch's office, taking in deep, shuddering breaths and letting them out again. Although he knew it was physically impossible, he felt as if he'd aged ten years in the past three days.<p>

Elizabeth was fine, physically at least. Aiden was only slightly wounded. "A little bit shot," he had put it.

Reid had informed him that being shot was a binary condition, one was either shot or not shot and _which one was it?_

Taken aback, Aiden had admitted the specifics of his wound, and that the paramedic had recommended a visit to the doctor. "Honestly, I'm fine," he said. "And so is Elizabeth."

But it could have been different. If Aiden hadn't gotten there in time, his daughter would have been taken. If the angle of the gun had been very slightly different, his daughter would have been taken and Aiden would have been dead.

Reid looked down at his shaking hands, then flattened them on his knees and took another breath.

Sixteen years separated them; in purely chronological terms, it would be unlikely but not impossible for Aiden to be his son.

They'd traded books and debated classic sci-fi TV. Reid had helped him move into his new apartment and coached him through the maddening intricacies of FBI bureaucracy. Aiden had bashed thumbs and gathered an impressive collection of splinters, helping to rebuild Reid's house. He'd come to Reid for advice when he'd first met Marissa, trying to work out if it were possible to know so quickly that this was the one.

("Why are you asking _me?_" Reid had said.

"You've been in love," Aiden had told him, and how he knew that, Reid could never work out.)

When Aiden's mother died, Reid had gone straight to the hospice from the airport, still exhausted from a three-day hunt for a serial rapist, and sat with Aiden until Helene Chevalier, who had once been Louise Jones, stopped breathing. When Elizabeth had been in the hospital in Atlanta, recovering from appendicitis, Aiden had taken one look at Reid pretending that everything was fine and he could do his work, and said, "I don't know what's wrong, but you need to go home," and driven him.

And they'd talked for hours. About Ian Doyle. About Brenna, about Mickey. Even about Emily.

Though he'd never allowed himself to think it consciously, that chamber of his heart that had unlocked for Elizabeth had quietly taken in Aiden as well.

Somehow, he had expected Elizabeth to know this. He'd expected her to sense the connection between himself and the younger man, to know that he was giving her into the care of not merely an FBI agent, but a spiritual older brother, one who'd unhesitatingly lay down his life to protect her.

Of course she didn't know. He'd never so much as written Aiden's name to her, because to tell their daughter about Aiden would be to come too near the subject of Declan for Emily's comfort. And the way she'd been raised, so protected, Elizabeth wasn't used to the notion that a family could be assembled as well as born, put together out of the human flotsam and jetsam of your life.

And Aiden wasn't happy with him either, wondering if their relationship had been nothing more than a way for Reid to keep an eye on him as they hunted his father, hurt that Reid knew all his secrets and hadn't reciprocated.

Forty-four years old, an IQ of 187, and you could still be a total idiot. It was an unwelcome revelation.

He pressed his fingers into his eyes. They were both alive, his children, and he had every opportunity ahead of him to fix things. But first, he had to bring Emily home.

Hotch had left his tablet with Reid, letting him catch up on what was happening elsewhere while he waited for news of his daughter. Two men, Cassavetes and a lesser lieutenant of Doyle's named Mulgrew, had attempted to breach the safe house that Aiden had set up. A stray bullet, either from an agent or from Cassavetes, had put Mulgrew in the ER, and nothing could be gleaned from him until he was out of surgery.

Cassavetes had then gone from the safe house to Reid's house, where Aiden had shot and killed him. The man who'd been watching Reid's house, Darby, had panicked and bolted, only to be captured by police. He was in custody, awaiting questioning, but it was even odds whether a man so low in the organization as to warrant guard-dog duty would have any information worth having.

The news wasn't all bad, though. With the breach of the safe house, they finally had some leads as to the identity of the mole. According to Hotch, Garcia was busy doing what she did best, digging into backgrounds, spinning fine threads of information into a tight net.

As he opened the door to the conference room, he could tell from Garcia's sparkling eyes and wild gestures that her digging had produced something.

She stopped mid-gesticulation to squeal, "Reid!"

Everyone looked around, and J.J. asked immediately, "Elizabeth?"

"Fine," Reid said. He had to take in his breath again and hold it. "She's fine."

"What happened?"

"Basically, her dad was so busy playing chessmaster that he forgot his own daughter isn't a pawn." Reid checked to make sure the door was firmly closed. "She managed to work out Aiden's real identity, but then leapt to the conclusion that he was working for his father."

He'd told them. Of course he'd told them. They were his team. But he'd kept it from Elizabeth. Too complicated to explain in their short amount of time, he'd told himself.

Idiot.

"And once she got there - " Manning made a little swooping movement with her hand. "Out the window."

He nodded, a shudder moving up his spine. He knew exactly the window she'd used, and the slenderness of the tree just outside it, and the terrible solidity of the concrete below.

"Oh," Garcia breathed. "That poor baby. She must've been so scared." At Reid's look, she added swiftly, "Almost as scared as you."

"She was scared," he said. He'd heard the ghost of it in her voice, as she asked _why_ he trusted Aiden, and he was furious with himself all over again. "She was terrified. When Aiden found her at my house, she tried to stab him with a landscaping stake."

"I'm sorry, _what?_" Manning said. "You're telling me that your daughter tried to hold off a trained, armed federal agent twice her age and size with - "

"A sharp stick. Yes."

"Wow," Manning said, a laugh bubbling up under the words. "She - wow."

J.J. shook her head. "She really is Emily's daughter, isn't she?"

"Cassavetes was there," Reid said flatly, unwilling to be light-hearted so close to disaster. "At my house."

It killed the laughter. "You said she was fine," J.J. said sharply.

"She is. Aiden shot him."

"Is he dead?"

"Yes. His partner is in police custody. They have instructions to call here if they get anything out of him."

"Do you think they will?"

"I don't know." He looked at Garcia. "You have something, don't you? I can tell. What is it?"

"Oh!" Her eyes lit again. "Enough fuel to barbecue a mole, Papa Bear."

His blood began to hum. "Show me."

* * *

><p>Something was going down. Emily could hear it in the quick footsteps overhead, the tension in the set of Doyle's shoulders as he spoke to his men.<p>

"She'll be here," he said to her. "Then I'll kill her."

He'd told her four times that Elizabeth was coming soon, enough to make Emily sure that her daughter was so far out of his grasp she might as well be on the moon. Emily considered reminding him that, political speeches notwithstanding, repeating something ad nauseum didn't make it so.

She decided to rattle his cage a different way.

"So, tell me something, Ian."

He went still. It was her voice, she knew. Conversational. Mildly curious. That was the point.

"She'll get here, you'll kill her, you'll kill me . . . what are you going to do after that?"

"Leave. He can find you. Your lover. I'll shoot you in the throat. Or the stomach. You can bleed to death. Slowly. Your people and all their fancy forensics will be able to pinpoint exactly how long it took you to die."

"Detail-oriented as always," she noted sweetly. "But not exactly an answer to my question." Behind her back, she flexed her hand. It was going numb again. "My question was, when you finally kill me - "

"Maybe I should do it right now."

"Maybe," she allowed. "Although Elizabeth isn't here yet. But whatever; it's your show. I'm under your control."

"Damn right you are."

"I am," she said. "But here's my question again. What are you going to do when I'm dead?"

He eyed her, silent, confused.

"What subject will consume your every waking thought? What will you throw all your resources toward?"

"I've a business to run."

She made a disparaging noise. "The business isn't anything more than a platform. The contacts - to find me. The money - to find me. Hell, you moved your entire organization to a different country, coincidentally the country where I was."

"Europe wasn't exactly friendly to me anymore."

"Mm, I'm sure there were some collateral advantages. But still. That's an awful lot of upheaval and focus for a hobby."

"A hobby? You call vengeance a hobby?"

"Well, no, that's the point. You seem to want me to think it is, but - " She shrugged, as if to say, _Here we are._ "By your own admission," she said, "I'm all you've thought about for twenty-two years. My death is your fucking Holy Grail. It's your quest. It's all you think about. All you care about."

"Your girl - "

"Yeah, I know. You want her dead too. Shoot her in front of me, make me suffer like you suffered, that much is pretty damn clear. But it's looking like that won't happen anytime soon, and you don't think so either, judging by the way you're talking right now. Leaving me to bleed to death, et cetera and so forth."

"You don't have to die today."

"Clearly that would be my choice, but you keep avoiding the question - "

"Stop talking."

" - and the _question,_ Ian, is - "

His hand covered her mouth.

She looked into his eyes. Smiled, knowing he'd feel it against his hand. Then kissed the skin of his palm.

He jerked his hand away as if she'd bitten him.

"Who are you without me, Ian Doyle?" she whispered.

He lurched to his feet and backed away. She left it at that.

"Boss," somebody said from the doorway, and he turned his back on her. Emily stretched out her legs, rolling her shoulders, getting comfortable, listening as hard as she could to the muttered words. A burst of enraged curses made her smile again.

She lifted a brow as the curses went on. Either there had been one epic fuck-up, or somebody very important had gotten killed. Possibly both.

The minion waited it out and then said, "Maybe we should move up to Boston."

Doyle turned on him. "You think because Cassavetes got his fool head blown off, you're suddenly my number two?"

"No, boss, I'm just saying. We're not getting the girl today, and they're closing in. They've got Darby, and Mulgrew."

"Mulgrew's in hospital. If he even makes it through surgery, it's easy enough for someone to finish him off."

"Darby, though. You think he'll roll?"

"I think you're a fool for even asking." Doyle pulled out his phone. "Our man will take care of it."

The minion apparently had balls of steel, because he said, "Listen, boss, can we still trust him? It was feds at the safe house, a fed that shot Cassavetes."

"I've got the whip hand on him. One anonymous tip and they'll know who's been feeding us information. Conyers will do what I say."

* * *

><p>"What?" said the police officer on the other end. "Sir, sorry, we have a request to question him immediately - "<p>

"A request from the FBI," Conyers bit out. "_I_ am FBI, and I'm telling you, don't go near Darby until I get there. This is part of a major federal investigation. Do I make myself clear?"

There was a burst of whispering. A "What?" from the officer on the phone. Another burst of whispering.

At least somebody at the damn police station knew who he was.

The officer's voice came back on the line. "Understood. We won't question him until you arrive."

"Good," he said. "ETA in thirty." He ended the call and started shutting down his computer, still gritting his teeth.

Doyle was treating him like some damn errand boy. Not that he couldn't kill Darby. He could think of three ways to do it cleanly without even straining himself. But he was a goddamn unit chief, not some petty junior agent with a gambling problem. Fucker.

Whatever. He only had three more months of this, then he'd be retired. Which was the point, wasn't it? To retire with some actual money and not having to depend on a pissant government pension.

He'd just shrugged into his coat when Reid stepped through the open office door. "Conyers," he said. "A word?"

"I'm on my way out," Conyers said, lifting his computer bag to underscore the point.

"It'll only take a moment."

The man was a stick insect. Conyers could knock him aside with an elbow. But that wouldn't look casual or usual, and the damned man was BAU, and they acted like every breath and every twitch told them volumes.

He was a fucking pain in the ass and had been ever since he'd requested to assist Organized Crime.

But Conyers was a game player, and so he set his computer bag down. "What can I do for you, Reid?" He kept his hand on the handle, making it clear that he wanted to be gone.

"Where are you going? If I may ask."

"To question a suspect at Arlington PD. He may have a lead."

"Where was he captured?"

"Your house, actually," Conyers said, hoping that it might force a reaction out of the man.

It didn't. "Ah," Reid said. "That one. I thought the one we took at the safe house might have come out of surgery already. But of course, that makes more sense."

Conyers's fingers clenched around his bag's handle. "What was that about the safe house?"

"It was breached." He checked his watch. "Seventy-two minutes ago."

"Over an hour? Why the hell wasn't I told?"

"Did you want to be told?" Reid asked mildly.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" In a dim corner of his brain, he knew that he was losing control, getting too angry, swearing too much, and Reid's dark eyes were fixed on him. He reined himself. "I'm Chevalier's unit chief. Yes, I want to be told when his safe house is breached."

"Yes, well, the house was breached, but Aiden and Elizabeth weren't there."

Conyers felt his stomach lurch, but he knew not to show it. He could still slide out of this. He could. He'd built in plenty of backups, fall guys. One of them being that annoying Chevalier. "And you're not worried about that?"

"No," Reid said calmly.

Maybe they'd been intercepted on the way. Wouldn't that be handy. "Clearly he's taken her somewhere else. If he never got to the safe house. You know, this doesn't look good. He could be working for Doyle."

"A logical conclusion. Except that Aiden would never hurt her, or betray the oath he took." Reid smiled at him sweetly. "Nobody bothered to inform you the safe house had been breached because you already know."

"How would I already know?" It was a dumb thing to say, too defensive, and he knew it as soon as the words escaped. His brain scrambled. He could still get out of this.

"Because," Reid said, and there were knives in his voice. "You told Doyle where it was."

It was like ice water down his spine. He reined himself in. No. It was speculation. It was a shot in the dark. He was fine. The accounts were well-hidden. "That's a bullshit accusation, Agent Reid, and I won't stand for it."

"No, I don't think it is," he said thoughtfully. "A bullshit accusation would be one made if we'd never seen the huge quarterly payments from an obscure import/export firm into the Caymans-based account under your grandmother's maiden name. She's got quite a portfolio for someone who's been dead for thirty-five years."

With a sick feeling, Conyers remembered Penelope Garcia's reputation. He'd dismissed it as exaggeration once he met her, a knocked-up blonde who dressed like a drag queen, but apparently there was more to her than feathers and spangles.

"Those are investments," he said stupidly, holding onto his cover story like a man clutching an umbrella in a hurricane.

"Investments. Interesting term. Accurate. I suppose Doyle would see buying an FBI agent as a sound investment. You know who else got quarterly returns from that particular corporation? Allan Waites. The Atlanta police officer who took my daughter out of class two days ago, intending to turn her over to Doyle to be killed."

A movement outside his office caught Conyers's eye. It was Aaron Hotchner, leading a cadre of Internal Affiars suits through the Organized Crime bullpen as his agents watched, wide-eyed. Billings started to sidle out the door, and Manning stepped in his way. The last bit of ground under Conyers' feet crumbled away.

"Wait," he gasped.

Reid lifted a brow. Of course he did.

"You want Emily Prentiss."

Reid's eyes went flat and cold, like a shark's. "_Yes." _For the first time in the whole conversation, emotion boiled under the word, so powerful that Conyers almost took a step back.

He swallowed, thinking, _Use this. Use it. _"So. I want a deal."

Aaron Hotchner was in the doorway, watching his agent. IA clustered behind him, listening.

"A deal," Reid repeated. "For immunity, I assume. We give you immunity and you give us Emily's location?"

He didn't actually know Emily Prentiss's location, but he could feed them something, some wild goose chase, and buy himself time, time was all he needed - "Yes. Exactly."

Reid nodded thoughtfully. "It's a reasonable request. But you're too late. The man they took at my house gave that information up fifteen minutes ago." He stepped back to allow the Internal Affairs agents in.

"Sir," the first agent said, and it wasn't the kind of _sir_ that Conyers was used to, the respectful _sir_ of someone who knew how powerful he was. This was the kind of _sir_ that Conyers himself had used, on penny-ante crooks that he'd rather squash under his shoe. "You'll need to come with us."


	21. Chapter 20

(A/N) Phew! Something that was taking up a lot of energy is finally done now, and while I can't promise regularity, I'll certainly try for it. Also, I forgot to say last week . . . thank you to whoever nominated War Crimes and The Phoenix's Child for awards in the Criminal Minds Fandom Favourite Fics. This warms my shriveled heart, especially the nomination of Elizabeth as best OC.

* * *

><p>It was full dark now, and Emily felt as if she were at the bottom of a well. Her ears tuned up to eleven. Something else had gone wrong by the sounds of it. Swift, heavy footsteps, treads running up and down the stairs. The guard at the door kept getting distracted, looking up and whispering on his cell phone. Emily reflected that, criminal or soccer mom, everybody looked like a moron with a Bluetooth.<p>

Doyle came to the door and looked at her. A voice from outside said, "Are you going to kill her, boss?"

She held his gaze, her last question to him vibrating in the air.

He turned away sharply. "I want the girl first. For this one, I'm doing it right."

"Boss - "

"Shut the fuck up. We're moving out."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth's dad had promised to call every hour to check in, no matter what. She could swear the clock was running backwards. It wasn't until Marissa, whose grandmother was from Beijing and who'd spent summers there as a teenager, started teaching her Chinese that Elizabeth was able to stop fretting and actually eat some of her dinner.<p>

Aiden listened to their vocabulary lesson with a resigned expression. "Great. Not only did I let you climb out a window, almost get shot, and eat total junk for dinner, now I'm going to give you back to your dad with a potty mouth that would make a Hong Kong sailor blush."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "It's not like these are the first dirty words I've ever heard. I know curses in Russian, English, French, Arabic, Italian, and Spanish."

"I thought you only spoke three languages." He reached for the last slice of pizza with his bad arm and winced.

Marissa gave him an exasperated look and put it on his plate herself.

"I do," Elizabeth told him. "But when I was younger, my mom didn't want me swearing. So she only cursed in languages I didn't know yet."

Marissa shook her head. "God, that's cute."

"Yeah, Mom didn't really think that through."

Aiden's phone rang, and they all jumped. He reached out and picked it up from the table. "It's your dad," he said. "Probably just checking in. You want to answer?" He held it out.

Elizabeth didn't take it. "He's not scheduled to check in for another twenty-four minutes. Something must've happened." Her heart was in her throat. What if what had happened was they'd found Mom, and she hadn't been . . . she wasn't . . .

"Answer it," Marissa said. "That's the only way you'll know."

She took the phone and answered the call. "Dad?"

"Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi."

"I can't talk long, but we've got a line on where your mother might be."

Her fingers clutched the phone so hard she was surprised the case didn't crack. "You're getting Mom back?"

"Honey, maybe. But you need to be prepared for the possibility that they've moved her."

"Okay," she whispered.

He hesitated. "Or that - " His voice failed.

Her stomach turned over. "I know."

"Okay. I'll call you as soon as I can."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Maybe several hours."

"Okay."

"Can I talk to Aiden for a minute?"

"Uh-huh." She handed Aiden the phone. He went into the other room to talk low-voiced.

Marissa reached out and squeezed her shoulder. Elizabeth gave her a wobbly smile and pulled her legs up to her chest.

They were going in. They were going to fight Doyle and all his men and get her mom back, she had to keep thinking that.

There would be guns, and people like Cassavetes, who wouldn't mind using them, and people could get hurt. Her dad could get hurt. She pressed her chin into her knees. Her mom, or her dad, or J.J. or Hotch or the rest of her dad's team, any one of them could be the body on the ground with the empty eyes tonight.

The thought swelled inside her until she had to jump out of her chair and run to the other room, where Aiden stood silently, listening to her dad on the phone. She caught his eye.

"Okay," he said. "Right. Good luck. Elizabeth wants to say something else to you." He handed her the phone.

"Dad? Be careful, okay? Everyone be careful."

"We'll do our best. I have to go."

"Bye," she whispered, and realized she hadn't told him she loved him. "Dad - !"

Too late. The call cut off.

* * *

><p>She'd been about to say something else, Reid knew, and he started to call her back, but they were turning the corner into the warehouse district, and the headlights had shut down, and the time was past.<p>

From the front seat, Hotch said, "How is she?"

"She says to be careful," Reid told him. "Everyone."

He checked his heavy ballistic vest and breathed. In, out. The jacket protected chest, stomach, abdomen. Most of the vital organs except the brain. If shot, the force would knock him over, maybe break a rib, but his skin would remain intact and his internal organs inviolate.

Emily had no vest.

He fit his radio into his ear; he'd taken it off to talk to Elizabeth. Hotch's voice echoed over the channel, speaking to everybody on the strike force. "Again, it's highly likely our target will kill the civilian hostage if he realizes we're there. He's extremely invested in holding onto her or making sure she's dead. For that reason, we are going in cleanly and quietly, and her safety is our first priority."

Emily wasn't precisely a civilian, Reid thought, but it would take too long to explain.

And she might have already goaded Doyle into killing her, thinking it would save Elizabeth. His heart twisted.

A hand closed around his. He looked up. J.J. looked pale and tense in the flickering lights from outside, but she gave him a tight smile and squeezed his hand.

It was the first time she'd initiated any sort of contact since the conversation in her office. He smiled back, feeling it wobble and crack on his lips.

He thought, _Don't, Emily, please, have faith. Trust me. Trust us._ Just in case a hundred negative studies and no neurological evidence of telepathic abilities were all somehow wrong.

A thought occurred, and he leaned forward. "Hotch?"

* * *

><p>Doyle paced back and forth between the door and the SUV his boys were loading with merchandise that had been delivered. He was running a business, after all, no matter what she thought.<p>

He should kill her. It was the most sensible thing to do.

But he didn't want to see her lifeless body. Didn't _just _want to see her lifeless body. It wasn't enough. He wanted to see agony. Despair. Rage. Helplessness. All those things that had eaten him alive after the North Koreans had showed him the pictures of Declan. He wanted to destroy her.

Killing her wouldn't do that. Not by a long shot. Maybe he'd even let her live after he killed her daughter. Just to see her fall apart.

_What are you without me, Ian Doyle?_

He shook himself. "Damn you, Lauren. Get out of my head."

He glanced around, ready to curse at anybody looking at him sideways. Nobody was. They knew better.

He pulled his phone out and dialed. Conyers hadn't checked in to tell him Darby was dead, and a faint tickle of unease started up at the back of his brain. He waited for it to ring, but voicemail kicked in instead.

He ended the call and stood for a moment, feeling the unease grow stronger.

"How much longer?" he snarled at nobody in particular.

One brave man answered, "Ten minutes, boss."

"Not fast enough." He popped out the SIM card, dropped it to the cement floor, and ground it under his heel. Then he reached into a crate, pulled out a silencer, and fitted it to his gun. "Five minutes, I want to be gone. Move."

"The woman - "

"I'll take care of her."

* * *

><p>Her fingers felt numb, the tightness of the duct tape having finally defeated her determined finger-flexing. They were probably turning blue. She stretched out her legs, then pulled them in, trying to retain as much mobility as she could.<p>

Her hands were fastened directly to the pipe, meaning they'd have to cut through the tape to get her free. They'd be on high alert, expecting her to make a break for it in the brief time that her hands were unbound. Her best bet, then, was to let them bind her hands again, convince them she was no physical threat. Convince Doyle. There would be a better time in transit to break free.

She glanced at her guard, who was murmuring on his phone again. She let her head hang down, her shoulders slump, as if asleep or unconscious or simply exhausted. Not much pretending to do there, she thought ruefully. She almost did fall asleep, in fact, her own exhaustion pulling her under. Too many days - too many _years_ - of poor, interrupted rest.

A muffled grunt and a thump brought her back to full alertness. She was careful not to change her position. Let them think they had to wake her.

A light lit up the insides of her eyelids yellow. Then a single word, somewhere between a breath and a moan. "_Emily . . ."_

Her eyes sprang open. "Reid?"

He was down on his knees in front of her, fingers reaching out to her neck, and he froze as she stared back at him. "Emily," he said again, and wrapped his arms around her.

She wanted to hug him back, but settled for the solid, warm feeling of his body against hers. Real. He was real. This wasn't some hallucination born out of hope and fantasy. He was here, vest and gun and wiry strength.

He let her go too soon. "Downstairs," he said into his radio. "Third room. We've got her, she's alive."

We? For the first time, Emily noticed the SWAT officer standing over her guard, unconscious on the floor. He nodded to her, bulky in his vest and helmet. "Ma'am."

She nodded back.

Reid said, "Are you okay? Emily, are you hurt?" He flicked the tiny, powerful penlight up and down her body.

"A little knocked around, but nothing I haven't had before." She leaned forward to give him access to her bindings. "Duct tape, on my wrists, around the pipe."

He stuck the penlight into his mouth and got to work on the tape with a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. He'd set his gun down by his knee. His hair brushed her cheek, and she resisted the urge to lean into it. They weren't clear yet.

"Libs," she said.

"Aiden has her," he mumbled around the penlight. "She's okay."

She let out her breath in a relieved sigh. He gave her a little, sideways smile.

The tape parted and Emily's hands came free. She shook them hard. They felt like blocks of wood on the ends of her arms. "M'okay," she said to his concerned look. "Circulation got cut off."

"Can you hold a weapon?"

"In a moment. So you don't have Doyle?"

"Not yet," he said, sliding one arm around her waist. "We - "

Their only warning was two dry, hollow _cracks_ and a terrible _thud_ as the SWAT officer was thrown back into the wall and fell heavily to the ground.

Reid dove for his weapon, but Doyle kicked it away. It skidded across the dirt and disappeared into the gloom. The flashlight, fallen to the floor, threw knife-edged shadows in odd places. It lit Reid's and Doyle's faces from below, as if they were kids telling ghost stories around a campfire.

"Hands up," Doyle said. "Both of you."

They lifted their hands. Emily's left wrist still had duct tape stuck to it. Her hands started to tingle painfully as the blood began to flow again.

"Dr. Reid," Doyle said softly. "Come to rescue the fair maiden from the dragon?"

"There are a number of federal agents upstairs," Reid said. His eyes met Emily's, flicked down once, then back up. "They'll have heard that. They know the sound of a suppressed gunshot."

Emily lowered her head, as if unable to bear looking at the two men. She could just see the grip of a handgun where it was wedged into Reid's waistband.

"They're too busy scrambling around after my boys."

It was small, a Glock 27 or 26. Maybe an ankle piece. She thought, _Some men bring roses._

"And you don't really mind if they catch you," Reid observed detachedly. "As long as Emily sees me die first."

She flexed her fingers again. They were pins and needles all over now, but she could at least feel the ends of her fingers.

"Ian?" she said.

"Mmm?" he crooned, lowering the muzzle of his gun until the silencer just brushed Reid's hair. "Going to beg, love?"

"Declan's alive."

He froze.

It was a split second of hesitation, but it was all she needed. Emily yanked the gun free and fired.

* * *

><p>J.J. knelt atop a man who was very surprised that a tiny blond soccer-mom type had just subdued and handcuffed him. She wasn't in the mood to humor his surprise. "Where's Emily?"<p>

"Who?" he mumbled into the concrete.

"Nora, then," she snapped. "Nora Brewster? Where is she?"

"I-I don't know who that is - "

"Lauren. Reynolds," she snarled through her teeth.

"Lauren? You mean Doyle's woman? He has her downstairs-"

"Which room?

"Th-third?"

"Hotch," she said into her radio. "I've got someone here who says Emily's in the third room, downstairs."

"Reid found her," Hotch said. Across the garage, near the head of the stairs, she could see him turning to look at her. "Alive."

She let out her breath. "What about Doyle?"

"I haven't heard - "

Shots cut them off. J.J. leapt to her feet, gun in hand, and bolted for the stairs.

* * *

><p>He lay on his back. She'd fired seven times and hit him twice, once high up in the chest and once straight through the throat. Between the light and her hands, making either shot had been a miracle.<p>

Blood welled from the hole, spilling down over his neck, pooling in the notch between his collarbones. The bullet might have struck his spine, too, because even when Reid kicked his gun away, he didn't react.

"I've got him covered," she said. "Check the officer." She went down on her knees just out of Doyle's reach, holding the Glock on him. There were two rounds left in the magazine. She didn't think she'd have to use them, but no sense in being stupid.

Reid grabbed up the light from the ground and hunched over the SWAT officer, crumpled against the wall. Footsteps thundered down the stairs. He said into his radio, "We need medical. Three down, one agent, no further injuries - " His voice buzzed in her ears.

Ian's eyes found hers. Blood bubbled grotesquely as his gory lips formed two words she couldn't hear.

"What?"

He tried again. The gurgling rasp just barely reached her ears. "Declan. True?"

"Yes," she whispered.

The light in his eyes dulled and went out.

* * *

><p><em>Did you love him?<em>

* * *

><p><em>Lauren Reynolds did.<em>


	22. Chapter 21

The first thing Hotch registered when he rushed into the room were bodies, three crumpled on the floor and two kneeling. He fumbled around the door for a light switch. Fluorescent light flickered and fizzed into existence. His heart started to beat again when he saw the ballistics vest on the wounded man, and Reid leaning over it. There was an unconscious man on the floor - one of Doyle's, it looked like - and a few feet away, a twisted and bloodied body, staring blankly at the ceiling. Ian Doyle.

And there, with his own ankle piece trained on the corpse, wincing against the cold light pouring down over her, was a woman he never thought he'd see again.

"Prentiss," he said.

She looked up. "Hotch."

"Is he dead?"

"I-I think so. Check?"

Hotch put two fingers to one side of the ruined, bloody neck. A blind child could have seen that Doyle was gone, but Prentiss needed the reassurance. "Dead," he said, and went to her. "Prentiss, are you all right?"

She nodded, looking dazed. Like some internal engine had suddenly cut out. "This is yours, isn't it?" she asked, holding up the little Glock.

He took it, registering the lighter weight. It had been fired, a number of times. Clearly into Doyle. A thought about the paperwork involved in a civilian firing an FBI-issued weapon flitted across his mind, and he pushed it away.

His radio buzzed in his ear. The scene was clear.

She put her hands on the floor and pushed. He put a hand to her elbow and when she accepted his help, frowned at her. "Medical is on its way. Are you hurt? Badly?"

"No," she said.

"Okay," he said, not sure if he believed her. There were patches of bruise darkening her face in various spots, and a scab at her lip, and she winced as she straightened up.

But it was momentary, and she managed to straighten completely. She wasn't noticeably favoring either foot or either arm, and except for that first moment, she wasn't avoiding the glare of the fluorescent lights. As the paramedics flooded in, he pointed them at the SWAT officer first.

Prentiss looked at the swarming uniforms with incomprehension. "Reid," she said distantly.

He came over. "Hey. I'm here."

She smiled crookedly. "Wanted to make sure. How is he?"

"One caught him in the vest, one in the arm. Neither life-threatening, I don't think." He touched her chin, tilting her head up.

She swatted at him, but nowhere near hard enough to actually knock his hand away. "Don't."

"We saw security footage," he said. "Cassavetes bounced your head off the side of his SUV. You also hit the ground quite hard."

"Thank you, because I haven't been feeling that for hours. Totally needed the reminder. Reid, I don't have a concussion."

"Victims of a concussion are often unaware for some time that they've sustained one," he said, but dropped his hand. "Symptoms can hold off for days or even weeks."

"Just shocky."

"The paramedics will look at her," Hotch said, feeling awkward. This woman had been his friend, so many years ago. They'd been in situations like this a hundred times. Now he wasn't entirely sure how to speak to her. Team member? Friend? Victim? Survivor?

How did Reid, of all people, know exactly what to say and do?

Prentiss looked down at the body sprawled at her feet and took a shaky breath. "Jesus," she said. "I - this isn't a dream, right?"

"He's dead," Hotch confirmed.

She turned her head away.

A paramedic said, "Ma'am, if you could step out into the hall, I'll look at you out there."

She refused any help, and managed to navigate around Doyle's corpse, the still-unconscious guard and the paramedics working on them both without too much trouble.

J.J. was in the hall.

"Emily?" she said, voice shaking a little. She stood holding her gun, stationed just outside the room.

Prentiss took an unsteady step toward her. "J.J."

J.J. stepped back. Prentiss stopped. "Jayje," she said. "I - "

J.J. turned on her heel and almost ran for the stairs.

Whatever Prentiss had been about to say choked her. Her shoulders drooped.

Reid moved as if to go up the stairs after J.J., and Hotch caught his eye. "Don't," he said, low. "I'll go. In a minute."

As the paramedic checked Prentiss over, asking questions that she answered in a tired voice, reports came in over Hotch's radio. They'd arrested most of Doyle's men, one or two had gotten away. An SUV with a large amount of contraband weaponry had been found on the premises. With the shambles of Quantico's Organized Crime unit at this moment - unit chief taken in on charges of corruption, the entire unit suspended until they could work out who'd been involved - the police needed something solid to charge the men they'd arrested, and that would do nicely.

The minute gone by, Hotch headed for the stairs.

He found J.J. running the names of the various men they'd arrested, seeing if they were wanted on federal charges. It was something the police could have done - in fact, probably something they'd already done. It was busywork.

He said, "She seems to be all right. Somewhat battered and bruised, but nothing serious."

J.J. nodded, not looking at him. "I'm going to call Will," she said abruptly. "I'll have him pick me up here. If that's okay."

It made sense. This was her first day back at work after a fairly serious bout of food poisoning, and her home was less than fifteen minutes away. If she waited and went back to the BAU to pick up her car, it would add another hour and a half to her day, easily.

He knew that wasn't the reason why.

"That's fine."

She nodded again. She looked like a bobblehead, her head wobbling on her neck as if she had little control over it.

He said, "Are you going to say anything at home?"

"To Will."

He'd tell Maggie about it, too. Both he and J.J. had learned at great cost about keeping too much from their partners. "And your kids?"

She shot him an incredulous look. "Hotch, are you telling me you're really going to sit your kids down and tell them Emily's back?"

"It won't mean anything to the girls. They're too young. They don't even know Emily exists. But Jack remembers her."

"So does Henry."

"What are you going to say to Cliff?"

She looked away. "I don't know."

They both watched three people come up the stairs, headed outside. Prentiss had a blanket around her shoulders. As they watched, it slipped and fell half-off. Reid picked up the trailing end and tucked it back over her shoulder. She reached up and caught his hand for a moment, and even at this distance, the look between them made Hotch look away, feeling like a voyeur.

J.J. looked away too, blinking hard. She dug into her pocket for her phone. "Hotch?"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell Reid I'm sorry? I just . . . can't."

He wondered how much the feeble apology was supposed to cover, but didn't stop her as she stepped away, already dialing.

He spoke briefly with the leader of the SWAT team, then the local police who'd helped. He got names, made statements, tendered official thanks, shook hands. It was always like this at a scene.

A gurney with the SWAT officer rattled briskly past, on its way to the ambulance for transport to a hospital. Another followed with the guard, now conscious but looking a little blank-eyed. Hotch doubted he even noticed he was cuffed to the gurney and had a cop next to him.

A third gurney took its time. No hospital could fix its cargo.

When he could, he went back to Prentiss. The paramedic was pressing gently on her side, asking questions - "Does this hurt? This? Here?" - and she shook her head to each one of them.

"How are you doing?"

The paramedic answered him. "Pretty good, all things considered," he said. To Prentiss, he said, "Fair warning: you're going to be extremely sore in the morning. If you want to go to the hospital, we can arrange that."

"No," she said swiftly. "I'm good."

He gave her a photocopied list of symptoms to watch for in the next several days, and then a bottle of water and a bag of cookies, with directions to eat slowly and carefully in case her stomach rejected it, before packing up his equipment. She followed orders with surprising meekness. Hotch wondered how long it had been since she'd eaten.

"Where's Reid?" he asked.

She glanced off to the left, where Reid stood murmuring into his phone. "He's calling Libs. Um, Elizabeth. My - our - "

"I've met her. She's quite something."

Her face lit with something soft and fierce and proud. "Hell of a kid, right?"

"Absolutely."

She looked again at Reid, visibly impatient. Hotch studied her profile, and a question that had been simmering somewhere in his heart for fourteen years rose up in his throat.

_Why did you call Reid that night? Why wasn't it me with you?_

Not that he'd ever consciously thought of such a thing when she'd been on the team. She had been his direct report and a relationship would have been inappropriate in the extreme, more inappropriate than one between herself and Reid.

But still. He'd always felt there had been something between them. A possibility.

She turned her head to look at him. "Hotch?" she said.

The question dissolved on his tongue. It was from long ago, another life. He was married to a woman he loved very much, and she was . . . well, whatever she was with Reid, and unformed possibilities were nothing next to a friendship that he could pick up again.

"It's good to see you again, Prentiss."

She smiled at him. It wobbled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so fucking sorry, Hotch."

As with J.J.'s "sorry," earlier, the apology covered a multitude of sins. He searched for the right reply. "Well. See that it doesn't happen again."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth was curled into a ball on Aiden's decrepit armchair, holding his phone and tapping the armrest in the Fibonacci series. She was up to one-hundred-forty-four. Marissa and Aiden were on the couch, supposedly watching <em>And Now for Something Completely Different<em>, but they weren't laughing.

They all jumped when Aiden's phone rang. Elizabeth looked down at it wide-eyed. _Reid_, said the caller ID.

"Is it your dad?" Aiden asked. There had been a couple of false alarms, including one call from Quantico that had resulted in a murmured conversation in the other room, and a burst of cursing from Marissa.

"Yes."

"Answer it."

Sudden terror froze her insides. "I - I don't want to."

It rang again. Aiden lurched up from the couch, took the phone from her hand, and answered the call. Elizabeth jumped up to hover at his elbow. Her nails were so picked down that there was nothing left to chew.

"Reid?" He listened. "And?"

He drew in his breath and put his hand against the wall as if to hold himself up. All the blood slid out of his face.

Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her mouth, but the whimpers escaped. "No," she moaned. "Noooooo . . ."

Aiden looked up, and some of the color rushed back into his papery face. "Oh, my God," he said, and pulled her into a hard hug. "_Ma poulette_," he said into her hair. "It's okay. I promise you. Your mom's alive. Your dad's alive." His voice cracked. "Everybody's fine."

She pushed at his chest until he let her go. "Really?"

He held the phone out. "Here. Talk to him."

She grabbed it. "Dad?"

"Hi, sweetheart."

"Aiden says Mom's okay?" She barely noticed Aiden going into the kitchen, and Marissa getting to her feet to go after him.

"She's fine."

"Really? Really fine?"

"My best guess, as non-medical personnel? Exhausted," he said. "Bruised. Most likely dehydrated and almost certainly in shock, but otherwise unharmed."

Relief seemed to steal all her bones. She drooped so extremely that she sat down on the floor. She took a few unsteady breaths. "I want to talk to her. Please, Dad?"

"She's right here."

A moment later: "Libs?"

"Mom!"

"It's over, honey. He's finished."

"He . . . is he in custody?"

"Sweetie, he's dead. I shot him myself."

That stole the last of the tension from her body. She wilted until her forehead touched the carpet. He was dead. Doyle was _dead._ It was all done now, for real. He could never hurt them again. "Are you okay? Mom, did he hurt you?"

"What, are you kidding me? It'll take more than that."

"What about Dad?"

"He's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm looking right at him. Upright and talking. A hundred percent."

"And, um, Hotch? And J.J.? And Manning and Simons?"

"Everyone's okay."

Elizabeth let out her breath.

"Honey, did you, um - " Her mom cleared her throat. "Do you still have the money I gave you?"

She blinked. "The money?"

"I gave you a roll of money, on the train this morning. Told you it was the backup plan. Do you still have that?"

"Oh, that!" Her face went hot. "I, um, I sort of lost it."

"Oh. Okay. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? That was a lot of money. I didn't count it or anything, but-"

"It's just money - "

" - it was maybe about five hundred dollars - "

"Libs! Listen to me. It doesn't matter."

Elizabeth pulled the phone away from her ear and gave it a quizzical look. She put it back. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Is the paramedic totally sure you didn't suffer a traumatic brain injury?"

"Oh. Nice. Very nice. I love you too."

"No, I really mean it. Did he check you thoroughly?"

"Head to toe. And he gave me all the symptoms to look out for."

Well, okay. There was that, at least. "When am I going to see you?"

"Your dad and Hotch are talking about that, actually. Do you want to ask him?"

"Uh-huh. I love you, Mom."

"I love you too. Here's your dad."

Her dad's voice came over the line again. "Elizabeth? Do you feel better?"

"Uh-huh." She wiggled with a sudden rush of excitement. "When can I see Mom? And you?"

"We've got a few things to wrap up here, but after that, Hotch is taking your mom back to Quantico to see Garcia and Morgan. I'm going to pick you up at Aiden's and we'll meet them there. In fact, can Aiden talk right now?"

She scrambled to her feet. "Aiden!" she called out, bounding toward the kitchen. She felt as light as air. "Aiden, my dad wants to . . ." She trailed off.

Aiden stood by one of the windows. Marissa stood with him, wrapped up in his arms, hands smoothing the hair back from his face. She kissed him on the lips, the cheeks, the eyes, breathing, "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

Elizabeth stood in the doorway and remembered that her mom was alive because she'd killed his dad.

It didn't matter that they hadn't seen each other in over two decades, it didn't matter that they'd been on different sides of the law, that Aiden had dedicated his life to hunting men like his father, none of that mattered. His dad was dead.

His dad who'd read him "Jabberwocky," who he'd thought was the most brilliant man in the world, who he'd missed as badly as Elizabeth had missed Tetya Iolante - Aiden could never see him or talk to him ever again.

She took a shaky step into the room. "Aiden?"

He looked up.

"My dad . . . my dad wants to talk to you." She bit her lip, feeling oddly protective. "I can tell him to call back."

"No," he said in a ragged voice. "No, I - " He broke off and held out his hand.

She gave him the phone and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. Marissa was still holding him, and his free hand moved restlessly up and down her back as he talked. There were big patches of crinkled fabric in her shirt, as if his hands had clenched in the cloth.

"Okay," he said. "No. It's okay. She can stay here until then. Really. Okay. Right." He listened, swallowed hard, and ended the call.

"So," Marissa said. "What's happening?" Her words were brisk, but her voice was soft and gentle.

"He's going to come here to pick you up, Elizabeth. Probably about half an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes."

Marissa studied her, then looked at Aiden. "You know you're bleeding again," she said.

He looked down at his arm, where he'd been shot. Elizabeth remembered him bracing it on the wall and leaning into it with all his weight. "Huh," he said. As if he hadn't noticed, and couldn't muster up the energy to care now that he had.

"I'm getting the first aid kit," she said, sliding out of his arms. "Be right back."

He sat down in a handy chair, looking hollow. Surprisingly, there were no tears in his eyes, but they looked empty, and his skin looked grey and drawn. He looked at her and forced a smile. "So, your mom. Good news there, right?"

"Uh-huh."

He nodded.

Elizabeth swallowed. "My mom told me - she told me what happened. To your dad."

He looked away. "It's probably better this way, you know?"

"Still," she said. "I'm sorry. _J'suis desolee_."

She thought he might ignore her, pretend he hadn't heard, but then he said in a shaky voice, _"Merci beaucoup, ma poulette._"

She put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in all the muscles, and then the other. Carefully, awkwardly, she hugged him, comforting Ian Doyle's son as best she could.


	23. Chapter 22

(A/N): So after several months of drama and angst and tension, you guys now get . . . well, more drama and angst and tension, but some happies too. You're welcome. And thank you to everyone who voted for War Crimes and The Phoenix's Child in the CM Favourite Fics 2011 contest.

While it's never mentioned on the show, they are stationed at an honest-to-god military base, so I'm using that. A base exchange or BX is the military base's answer to Walmart. Everything you might need under one roof. I don't know if FBI agents have BX privileges at Quantico, but Garcia could probably talk them into it.

* * *

><p><em>Maybe it's weird, but I never asked Mom about you. I didn't have to, because other people did all the time, and she always said the same thing. "He's not around," and then she'd change the subject. I sort of knew that I would get the same answer if I asked.<em>

_(I'm sorry. Does that make you feel bad? It is what she said, though.)_

_I remember once, somebody asking her about her family, and she said the same thing: "They're not around."_

_The lady didn't know how to take a hint, and said, "It's difficult when you're not on good terms with family. Still, don't you think that Elizabeth would benefit from a relationship with her grandparents?" _

_Then Mom looked her straight in the eye and said, "I lost my entire family before she was born."_

_I knew that "I lost them," was a polite way of saying that they were all dead. Still, I couldn't help but think it sounded like she'd somehow misplaced them, and that maybe she'd find them again one day._

* * *

><p>The road leading up to Marine Corps Base Quantico was the same. The stone memorial, its flag lowered now that it was dark, still stood by the front gate and there was still a young Marine, waving them through when he saw their government plates. It hadn't changed.<p>

"When did the Marine Corps start recruiting at middle schools?" she asked, looking back at the guard. "I swear that kid was my daughter's age."

"He's nineteen," Hotch said calmly. "From Ames, Iowa. Garcia makes him cookies."

"He's an infant. He can't even drink. They gave him weapons training?"

The front gate guards had always been ridiculously young, and they'd always had some variation of this exchange. It felt like stepping into a comfortable pair of shoes.

Their conversation in the car had proceeded in fits and starts, but it had gotten easier as the road rolled away beneath them. He'd told her about his second wife, Maggie, their three daughters, and Jack, attending art school at Georgetown. She'd tried not to let on that she knew almost everything he was telling her because Reid already had. Anyway, she liked seeing his face soften and light up when he spoke about his family.

She checked the time. It would be at least half an hour before Elizabeth and Reid could possibly arrive. Probably closer to forty-five minutes. She wondered why she'd agreed to come out here instead of going straight home with Reid. But she knew why.

Penelope was just up there, in that tall familiar building surrounded by trees. According to Hotch, Morgan's flight from Dallas had gotten in an hour before, and he'd come directly here - do not pass Go, do not collect $200, go directly to Quantico to see the prodigal team member, who'd lied to them and abandoned them and let them think she was dead.

She was wringing her hands, she discovered when she looked down at her lap, and forced herself to stop.

She told herself that Penelope had stayed, drawing her day out to ten or twelve hours easy, which at seven months pregnant probably felt like twenty or twenty-four. Morgan had come straight here, sending his wife and daughter on to his in-laws'. They wanted to see her. They _wanted_ to see her.

Then again, J.J. had been on the scene with her vest and her gun, and she'd still . . .

Emily shut her eyes. She'd turned the moment over and over in her head, and she wasn't going to do it anymore.

Hotch said, "Prentiss?"

"M'okay," she said, blinking her eyes open.

The lobby was the same - different carpet, maybe. She made for the elevators, strides long and determined.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

She stopped, because it was the kind of _excuse me, ma'am_ that warned it could just as easily be _hands where I can see them._ The security guard at the front desk gave her a stern look. "I'll need to see some ID before you can proceed past this point."

Her hand went to her belt loop, where she always used to wear her federal ID, and found only cloth. Of course. She was a civilian.

"She's with me, Mike," Hotch said. "I'll sign her in. Prentiss, it'll just be a moment."

"Yeah." She stood, feeling stupid. What, did she think she could just walk into the FBI?

She always had before.

The elevators dinged, and she started to turn when a squeal hit her ears.

"There she is there she is theresheis!"

And Emily found her arms full of a sobbing laughing Penelope Garcia.

"Omigod I can't believe it, you're here, you're really here . . ."

Emily held her close, swallowing hard against the knot of tears in her throat. This unabashed joy was Penelope through and through, and she hadn't realized until now how scared she'd been that it wouldn't be waiting for her.

Finally, Penelope leaned back. "Look at you. Oh, sweetie, you look - "

"Like crap?"

"No! Well, a little tired. And those bruises! But great! Really."

Emily held her at arm's length. "Great would be you," she said. "Actually, amazing would be you. Wow."

"I know, right?" Penelope made jazz hands, right at chest level. "Pregnancy tits, on top of an already stellar rack . . . they're stupendous!"

Emily laughed helplessly and hugged her close again. "Oh, Christ, PG, there's nobody like you in the whole world."

Her friend's arms closed around her again, tight enough to make her ribs creak.

They pulled apart again after several minutes, Penelope unabashedly sniffling. "Look who brought you balloons."

Emily looked at the bright bouquet of mylar, dancing in the air, and then at the man holding them. "She made you get balloons on the way from the airport?"

He shrugged slightly. "I can't refuse this woman anything," he said. "You know that."

She laughed at the truth of it. "Morgan," she said. "I - "

He held up one finger. "Don't," he said. "Don't you dare. C'mere." Still holding the balloons, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her so hard that he actually lifted her an inch or two.

She hugged him back, so hard her arms ached. She thought of what she'd missed, buying him a drink when he got his own team, going to his wedding, meeting his daughter, and squeezed harder.

"Seriously," she said, muffled into his shoulder. "I - "

He let her go, but not far. "Listen, you. I spent the whole flight reading your CIA file - "

"How the hell did you get - "

" - everything for the past quarter of a goddamn century, and don't you dare apologize, because you did what you had to do. All right?"

"Okay."

"Okay. Right." He let out his breath. "But, damn, woman, don't you do that to us again."

"Don't worry. I'm fresh out of vindictive criminal exes."

"Good news," he said. "And I have a question for you."

She'd been sort of expecting this, and was only surprised that it had taken four reunions for it to come up. "Yes?"

"You and Reid."

Penelope made a little chiding noise, but Emily tilted up her chin and stared him down. "Me and Reid."

Morgan had played too much poker with her. "Are . . . what, exactly?"

She swallowed. For all they knew, her relationship with Reid had started and ended with impulsive sex in the back of his car, right before Emily Prentiss had disappeared off the face of the earth. On the other hand, while she knew they were more than that, it had never been precisely defined by either of them.

It was like one of Elizabeth's geometry problems. Define x, the point at the intersection of colleague and friend, lover and father of her child, confidante and lifeline . . .

"I - ah - " She looked away. "I'll let you know when we figure it out, okay?"

Penelope broke the awkward silence with a question. "Honey, how long have you been in those clothes?"

"About twenty-four hours, give or take."

"Just like I thought." She handed her a plastic bag emblazoned with the base exchange logo.

Emily opened it. Pants, shirt, what looked like a pair of pajamas, toothpaste, deodorant -

"There's another one in my office for Elizabeth. Now I had to make my best guess on sizes, and I think we can all agree that the BX is not exactly a fashion destination, but I at least got - "

"Underwear," Emily said, her voice shaking. "You got me underwear."

Penelope misinterpreted the tears welling up. "Oh, Emily! It's okay! We'll get better clothes tomorrow! Way cuter."

She swiped at her eyes, turning half-away from Hotch and Morgan. "These are great. Perfect. I couldn't ask for better and I-" How to explain what it felt like to be taken care of? She'd spent so long being a mom on her own, taking care of everything by herself, that to be mothered like this brought actual tears to her eyes. "I missed you. I have really missed you."

Penelope put an arm around her shoulders. "My poor warrior princess," she cooed. "Come on. Gym's still open. You can take a shower before your honey and your babygirl get here."

* * *

><p>Emily cranked the water as hot she could stand, and it seared her shoulders and back like it would peel the skin away and leave her raw. She stood with her arms folded against the shower wall and her forehead resting against them. Her wrists ached. Bruises had started coming up where the duct tape had pressed, which went attractively with the abraded and irritated patches that the adhesive had left.<p>

She used to do this after really bad cases, as if boiling herself alive would decontaminate her. The tiles were the same, the spare and functional shower curtains, the smell of industrial-strength cleaner. The FBI saw no need to change things, apparently. Ever. She could hear the sounds of agents coming through the locker room for a late-night workout, or on the way back. Some night owls, unable or unwilling to go home. Also not new.

All this time, nothing had changed.

Her eyes jolted open. She stared at the grout in the tiles only a few inches from her eyes, rigid with terror. What if the last fourteen years had been some kind of hallucination? What if Doyle had taken her before she could leave?

Maybe there was no Atlanta. No dull but decent-paying job in the accounting office. No rented house in a suburb, with the kudzu attempting to take over the lawn every time her back was turned. No tae kwon do tourneys, no discussions about homework or whether it was time to do a load of laundry.

No sweet, serious girl with her apple-smelling hair silky under Emily's chin when she tucked herself into her mother's arms.

Maybe she'd never kissed Spencer Reid, in a darkened movie theater during the climax of a godawful apocalypse movie.

Maybe he'd never kissed her back.

Maybe it was all a bubble she escaped to in her head, when the dark basement and the duct tape around her wrists and the crooned taunts made it untenable to remain.

She ran trembling hands over her hair and found it cropped short, the way she'd worn it since just after Elizabeth started first grade. She stretched out her arms and saw the burn mark from the company picnic, two years ago, when some idiot had been waving a barbecue fork around and she hadn't seen it in time. The scar on her shaking forefinger, where she'd damn near taken it off, clipping back the stinking kudzu. She bowed her head and studied her breasts and hips and belly, and saw the faded, silvery stretch marks.

She rested her forehead against the tile and sighed.

Real.

Penelope called out, "Hey! Emily, are you trying to boil yourself or what?"

"Almost done," she called back.

"Good, because we're all waiting on you."

And that was real too.

* * *

><p>"Wow," Emily said when the elevators opened onto the fourth floor.<p>

"Lots of changes, right?"

"No," she said. "It's just the same."

Almost everyone had gone home. Of the few stragglers who remained, other than the group that had congregated in the conference room, it was nobody that Emily knew. But the layout, the desks, the smell, the sounds. The curious eyes, because they were BAU and they were interested in people and behavior and there had been a lot of abnormal behavior around here lately.

As they started mounting the steps, Penelope said, "Oh!" under her breath.

"What?"

"The conference room. Look who's here."

Emily looked, and stopped walking. She took in a breath, let it out, and went in.

The carpet had been redone, there were snazzy new screens where the whiteboard used to be, and the table had definitely been replaced at one point. But the skinny windows like arrow slits were the same, the couch was the same one even if it had been reupholstered, and the people in it were infinitely familiar. Including the woman who rose from the couch and stood fiddling with the necklace at her throat.

"Hey," Emily said, then had to stop and swallow. "J.J. Hotch said you went home."

"I did."

"So you turned around and came back?"

J.J. eyed her. "We are not completely okay yet, you need to know that."

_Yet,_ Emily heard.

"Fourteen years. Emily. You missed a lot."

"Yeah," she said. "I know." She thought of Rossi, waked and buried before she'd known he was even gone. "Believe me, I know what I've missed, and you have a right to be angry. But . . . you're here."

She sighed and looked the ceiling. "Will picked me up at the scene," she told the ceiling tiles. "I told him everything on the way home, and he listened, and I needed that." She dropped her gaze back to Emily's. "I realized that even though I'm still mad at you, Emily, there's something I've been desperately wanting to do for the past thirteen years and now that I can, I don't want to waste any more time."

Emily's throat knotted up. She couldn't speak.

J.J. stepped back. "C'mere, honey," she said, and a girl got up from the couch and came over to stand next to her mom. A round-faced girl with slate-blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a purple skirt and a hot pink shirt that said, "All this and brains too!"

The stray thought crossed Emily's mind that Penelope must have had a _lot_ to do with this girl's sartorial development.

J.J. put an arm around her shoulders and steered her forward and slightly in front of her. "Emily Prentiss, I would like you to meet Emily LaMontagne."

"Hi," J.J.'s daughter said shyly, ducking her head.

"Hey," Emily said. "It's very nice to meet you."

"You too," she said to her toes.

"Cliff, right? Your Uncle Spence tells me that everybody calls you Cliff."

She looked up. "Right. Um. It's because my middle name is Elizabeth, and there's these books, Clifford the Big Red Dog. He's this, you know, big red dog, like gigantic, and the girl who owns him is named - "

"Emily Elizabeth, yeah. I know them well." Elizabeth had adored those. She'd loved that the girl's name was the inverse of hers.

"It's not that Emily's a bad name," Cliff rambled. "It's a nice name. It's not like, Ermintrude or something. Emily's cute, really. It's just, I'm Cliff."

"That's okay. It's perfect for you. Unique."

J.J. had noted her lack of surprise. "Reid told you, didn't he? What her full name was?"

Emily nodded. "I was - I am - so honored."

"Honored?" J.J. lip trembled. She looked down at the top of her daughter's head. "I missed you, Emily," she said, and it sounded like an accusation.

"And you think I didn't miss you?" Her voice cracked. "But I had to."

"You're supposed to come to your family with these things. You're not supposed to do it alone."

"You saw what he did to families." She looked around the room, making sure she met everybody's eyes. Hotch, Penelope, Morgan, and finally back to J.J. "Over my dead body was that happening to you."

J.J.'s eyes narrowed briefly. "You realize that's just a figure of speech, right?"

"You realize I'm not actually dead, right?"

She gave a little snort. "Bitch."

Cliff said, "Mom!"

Both Emily and J.J. laughed.

Emily said, "Jayje," and watched her friend's momentary smile fade. "I'm sorry I left."

"Well," J.J. said softly. "You came back."

* * *

><p>As they parked the car, Elizabeth was holding forth with all the warmth and energy of the righteously indignant. "I just don't get why Aiden got suspended, too," she said for the fourth time since Reid had picked her up. "It's not fair. He didn't do anything wrong."<p>

"Honey," Reid said patiently, also for the fourth time. "There are a lot of good agents in Aiden's unit that didn't do anything wrong. Unfortunately, their boss did, and Internal Affairs has no choice but to suspend the whole unit until they can work out who was involved and who wasn't."

"But - "

"No, it's not fair, but it's Bureau procedure."

"Bureau procedure is illogical."

He refrained from reminding her that just a few hours ago, she herself had been convinced Aiden was dirty. "I'll testify on his behalf, sweetheart," he said instead. "He should be back at work sometime next week." He held up a hand to forestall the protest. "And truly, I think it's a good thing that he'll be forced to take some time off."

This was new. She eyed him. "Why?"

"Today was traumatic for him in a number of ways, and Aiden has a very bad habit of pretending nothing is wrong and throwing himself into work." Said the pot regarding the kettle, he thought with an inner grimace. "This way, he'll have no choice but to process some of his emotions."

"You mean his dad," Elizabeth said.

"Among other things."

She chewed that over while he signed her in as a visitor, and as they walked to the bank of elevators. "He loves him, Dad," she said quietly. "He told me about this poem that his dad read to him when he was little, and how wonderful he thought he was, and how much it hurt to lose him. But then he said he'd never let his father get me, and when he heard that . . . well, he said it was better that way."

"I know."

"I just don't get it. He loves him, but he knows he's a bad person. How does that work?"

"Love is not something you can turn off like a faucet. Aiden's experience with his dad when he was little was a very good one. Very loving. And I know it's a tough concept, but at least some of the terrible things Doyle did were because he loved his son."

She sighed and slid her hand into his. "People are confusing."

"Yes," he said feelingly. "They are at that."

She was quiet as they went into the elevator and he hit the button. "Mom's okay, isn't she?"

"The paramedic cleared her, sweetheart. "

"I know, but she's not exactly good at admitting when she's not okay."

"Oh, you noticed that?"

"Dad, come on."

He squeezed her hand. "I know. But you and I will keep an eye on her. Between us, we should be able to work out how she's doing."

"We have a combined IQ of over 350, after all," she noted rather smugly.

He snifled a snort. "Yes, that should help."

Her hand tightened on his as the elevator slid up past the floors. "Can't it go faster?"

"It's only four floors."

"I just really want to see Mom," she said.

"I know." He was anxious to see Emily himself, to ascertain that it wasn't a dream, and she was really, finally home.

The bell announced their arrival with a bright _ding!_ Elizabeth pulled at his hand, hard, and they were out of the elevator before the doors had finished opening. "Dad! Come on!"

He lengthened his stride to keep up with her. She hit the doors of the BAU at almost a run.

There was a moment of hesitation as she looked for Emily. "Where is she? Isn't she here?"

Reid had already spotted her. "She's in the conference room, with - is that J.J.?"

But Elizabeth didn't care about anyone besides Emily. "Mama!" she yelped, dropping his hand entirely and bolting across the bullpen. "_Mom!"_

Emily turned and spotted her through the glass. Her face lit up, and she ran out of the conference room and leapt down the stairs two at a time, opening up her arms so Elizabeth could fling herself into them.

Reid was vaguely aware of everybody else flooding out of the conference room, standing at the rail or at the window. But he couldn't take his eyes off Emily and Elizabeth, locked in each others' arms. His heart was too full for him to do anything but smile.

"You're okay?" Elizabeth asked, pulling back to peer up into her mom's face. "You're really, really okay?"

"I am so much better than okay now." Emily rested her forehead on Elizabeth's, smiling down at her.

"I got to Dad. Just like you said."

"_Devochka moya, _my brave beautiful girl. I knew you could do it."

Elizabeth cuddled into her, sniffling. But after a moment, she lifted her head from Emily's shoulder and looked around. When she spotted him, she said, "Dad," in an incredulous voice.

Emily looked at him, too, but said nothing, her hand occupied in smoothing Elizabeth's fluffy, disorderly hair.

"What?" he asked.

Elizabeth stretched out her hand in a silent command.

"Oh," he said, and went to join them. Elizabeth looped her outstretched arm around his waist, and nestled between her parents with a sigh.

He put one arm around her shoulders and rested his chin on the top of her head. Emily gave him a crooked little smile, and traced her hand down his free arm from his elbow until her fingers could curl around his and squeeze.

He thought, _They're here, and I'm here, and Doyle is gone. It doesn't have to be a secret anymore. Any of it,_ and squeezed back.


	24. Chapter 23

(A/N) Okay, I'm not quite done. There will be an unabashedly fluffy epilogue, sometime soonish.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>Logically, I know this has to end sometime. Someday, maybe soon, Doyle will either find you or we'll capture him and put him in prison again, and you'll be able to come back home. This is a tenuous situation at best. It can't hold. I know this.<em>

_But on the worst days, it feels if it will always be this way, with the two people I hold most dear always out of reach. I want to see Elizabeth graduate high school, or at least college. I want to introduce her to the team. I want to be there, being her dad, every day and not just on a screen._

_And you . . . I want you here. I want to see you smile every day, I want your books on my shelves, I want to feel your body next to mine in the night._

* * *

><p><em>Last night - this morning, really - I woke up around 3 am. I went to check on Elizabeth, because that's what I do when I wake up at 3 am. When I came back, something about the way the blankets were piled up and the shadows in the room made it look like there was somebody in the bed waiting for me. Like this long, skinny, sleeping body, warm in the night, with arms that would go around me if I nudged or kissed you awake. <em>

_I didn't get into bed for ten minutes, because I knew they were just blankets and you were far away._

* * *

><p>Emily found her daughter just ending a phone call. "Aha," she said, dropping down to sit on the edge of the bed. "That's where your dad's phone went."<p>

When she'd first seen this room half an hour ago, it had the unused, pristine air of a guest room. But Elizabeth had already started to change that. She'd ransacked the well-stocked and orderly bookshelf, dumped her dirty clothes on the armchair by the window, dropped the bag of clean clothes on top of the chest of drawers - okay, points for proximity - and left her shoes in different corners.

"Did he want it back?" Elizabeth asked, holding out the phone. Her hair was damp from her shower, and she had changed into the pajamas that Penelope had bought for her, purple cotton with bright yellow hippos.

Emily took it, but said, "What's the point? All the calls tonight have been for us anyway." She leaned over to set it on the nightstand, under the light that lit the whole room in a cosy golden glow. "Who was it this time?"

"Aunt Penelope. She's making me a hat." She snuggled into Emily's side. She'd been clingy since their reunion, badly in need of cuddles and reassurance.

Understandable, and Emily was willing to oblige since she was feeling the same way. She wrapped her arm around her daughter's waist. "I did tell you she'd start knitting something the minute she met you. So you like her?"

"Yes. I liked everybody." She thought. "Eventually."

"You definitely got along with Cliff." Upon being introduced, they'd eyed each other for a few minutes, but the next time Emily looked up, they were deep in conversation over the bag of clothes from Penelope, and Cliff had given Elizabeth both her phone number and email address before they'd left.

"She's nice. She didn't even mind that I got blood on her clothes. She says it happens all the time anyway."

"Good, I'm glad." Her daughter wasn't the time to make friends quickly or easily, and it was a relief that she'd clicked with J.J.'s daughter.

"Mom?"

"Mmm?"

"What happens now?"

"Well, tomorrow I'm planning on sleeping until noon or so. Then we'll get your hair cut, get a few more clothes, and go - " She grimaced. "Go meet your grandma."

With extreme amounts of luck, her mother wouldn't drop dead of shock or flat-out refuse to see them. Reid was going to call in the morning and prepare her, gently, but Emily knew Elizabeth Prentiss and she knew that probably the best they'd get away with was a rousing fight. Meet the Prentisses, daughter dear.

"Penelope and J.J. both want to see us on Saturday, and Mrs. Hotchner invited everyone to dinner on Saturday night." Maggie Hotchner must be made of stern stuff, to willingly allow the entire team, plus two former members, around her table. Shop talk was inevitable. "Plus, somewhere in there, the authorities will need statements from us. Then we'll fly back to Atlanta Sunday night, because I have work and you have school and we've both missed plenty."

"Okay," Elizabeth said. "But I meant after Sunday."

"As in, what do we do now that Doyle's dead and Emily Prentiss is alive?"

She rested her chin on Emily's shoulder. "Yeah."

Emily reached up and tucked a stray, damp lock behind her daughter's ear. "I have thoughts. But what's your vote?"

"I think we should move here," she said immediately.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"You grew up in Atlanta," Emily pointed out. "Annie's there. Ophelia. Master Tom. You're already accepted at Georgia State for the fall semester, with a full scholarship."

Her brows drew together. "I know. But Dad's here. And Grandma."

Emily bit back her first retort, which was that having Elizabeth Prentiss in the same metropolitan area might not be counted in the plus column. No sense in screwing up her daughter's relationship with her mom prematurely.

"And if it's about my education, I researched it a long time ago. There are any number of well-respected institutions of higher learning in the D.C. area, and really, let's be realistic. I'm a mathematical prodigy, the daughter of a well-respected genius. They'd want me."

"Oh, honey. You're so humble and modest. I worry about you."

Elizabeth ignored the teasing. "Mom, you don't really want to stay in Atlanta, do you?"

"No. No, kid, I don't."

Her face broke out in an enormous smile. "So we're moving here?"

"As soon as you graduate, we're hitting the road."

"Yay!"

"Where do you want to live?"

"What can we afford?"

Well, what did she expect from the kid who'd done her taxes for the past five years? "We'll look around. Do some research. I know how you despise that."

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at her mom, but the grin returned.

There was a shy knock. "Hello? Can I come in?"

"The door's open," Emily pointed out.

"Privacy and sanctity of personal space are important concerns for teenagers, particularly when it comes to the opposite-sex parent."

Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, Dad, you can come in," she said, sitting up and scooting back until her back rested against her pillows.

He sat cautiously at the end of the bed. "Do you like the way your room came out?" he asked Elizabeth. She'd chosen most of the colors and furnishings online.

"Yes, very much." She elbowed her pillow into shape.

"Did you see the - " He caught sight of the bookcase, littered with gaps, and the stack of books teetering on the nightstand. "Right. Yes. I see you did."

"Dad," Elizabeth burst out. "Mom and I are gonna move here."

His face lit up. "Really?"

"Uh-huh! Right after graduation."

His smile remained, but took on an edge of caution. "You sure you won't miss your friends in Atlanta, sweetheart? You grew up there."

"I know, and I will. But I think we belong here." She tilted her head, studying them. "Mom said the same thing just now. About whether I was sure."

They traded glances. "We don't want you to regret this," Emily said.

"I won't," Elizabeth insisted. "Look, guys, Atlanta was our hiding place, okay? We don't need to hide anymore. I want to be here."

Reid nodded. "Okay." He squeezed her ankle. "I'm very happy to hear it, Elizabeth."

They talked about schedules, spring break, the end of the school year. Reid agreed with their daughter that she could pretty much take her pick of the schools in the area. When Elizabeth yawned, Reid stopped talking mid-ramble, maybe the only time Emily had ever seen that happen. "You're tired. We'll talk tomorrow."

He retrieved his phone and started to get to his feet, but she said, "Wait. Dad."

"Yeah?"

"Um." She looked at her fingers. "You've seen dead bodies, right? Both of you?"

Reid and Emily looked at each other. "More than our fair share, yeah," Emily said gently.

Now Elizabeth asked, her eyes still cast down, "How - um - how do you forget about the eyes?"

She'd seen the man that Aiden had killed. Cassavetes, who'd terrified her, who would have killed her, but who'd died instead. When they'd arrived, Elizabeth had stopped at a trampled and stained patch on the seeded lawn, staring at a dark smudge on the wall until Reid had said quietly, "We'll get it cleaned, sweetheart," and steered her away.

Not for the first time, Emily hoped that Doyle and Cassavetes were burning in hell together, for putting her daughter through things that most people never had to see.

"You don't, really."

Emilly muttered, "Reid - "

He gave her a quick look, and she swallowed her protest, along with the instinctive reassurances. What good would it do, to tell her that she'd forget? Because she wouldn't. Nothing to do with an eidetic memory. It wasn't needed, for your first sight of that empty gaze.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, had looked up. "Ever?"

"But you stop thinking about it. You learn to put it away somewhere."

She sighed. "What if I can't?"

"You will," he said. "And you can always talk to us about it."

"Elizabeth," Emily said. "What he would have done to you . . ."

"I know," she said. "I mean, not that I actually _know, _because it's not as if he ever told me, but I can infer." She took a shaky breath. "I just wish it hadn't had to happen that way."

Emily thought of Doyle's eyes, and his last words, gurgling through the blood in his throat. "I know."

Elizabeth frowned at nothing. "Aiden had never killed anybody before," she said. "Ever."

Reid touched her shoulder, then put his arm around her. "Sweetheart," he said. "Aiden made the choice to keep you safe. You understand that?"

She nodded.

"Your mom has made that choice. For that matter, so have I. It's not easy and it's not comfortable, but it was right. Do you understand that?"

She relaxed against him. "Yes."

He kissed her temple. "Should I, um, stay until you fall asleep?"

"No," she said. "That's okay. Mom will. Right?"

"Of course," Emily said.

Reid hugged her again. "Okay. I'll be here if you need me."

"Okay." She squeezed her arms around him, then let go and crawled under the covers.

He smoothed her hair, then got up. "Should I close the door?"

"Can you leave it open?"

"Absolutely." He slipped out.

Emily set her hand on her daughter's hair and stroked it back. It was almost dry now, soft and fluffy as duckling down. "You want to read, my baby koala?"

It made her smile. "No. But Dad got a copy of Big Green Monster. It's on the nightstand."

"No, really?" Emily looked. The cover was shiny and new, not taped and battered, but it was the same book. Not for the first time, she wondered what it said about her, that she'd taught her daughter to love a book about fear and the mastery of it.

But the world was full of monsters, and the biggest lie you could ever tell your child was that it wasn't.

"You remember the last page? Go away, Big Green Monster . . ."

"And don't come back until I say so," Emily said.

"When I was in Aiden's bathroom, I said it to myself. And I was waiting for you to answer."

"Oh, honey," Emily whispered.

"And you didn't, obviously." Elizabeth reached up and wove her fingers through Emily's. "So I did."

"Was that when you climbed out the window?"

"Uh-huh." She made a face to herself. "I was kinda stupid, wasn't I?"

"You weren't operating with all the information. And if Aiden really had been working for Doyle, it would have been the smartest thing to do, getting away. So, no, I don't think you were stupid. Impulsive maybe. And brave. I always say you're my brave girl, don't I?"

"You're proud?"

"Always."

"Even though I was wrong?"

"Hey. You made a decision and you acted on it. That's a good skill to have, baby. You'll need it. Today proves I'm not always going to be there."

"Yes," Elizabeth said. "You're aging rapidly. One day soon, I shall put you on an iceberg and float you out to sea."

Emily swatted her shoulder. "Horrible child. Why didn't I throw you to the wolves when I had the chance?"

"You were afraid that one of them would adopt me and then I'd grow up to found an empire."

"Oh, right." Emily tugged the blanket up higher.

Elizabeth wormed her shoulders into the pillow. "What's that?"

Emily lifted her head. "The music? I think your dad's playing the piano. Want me to ask him to keep it down?"

"No," she said, her eyelids drooping. "It's nice. Pretty. I think it's Bach."

"Hmmm," Emily said, looking toward the stairs. "You going to be able to sleep, _devochka_?"

"Think so."

"I'm here, you know. Your dad too. We're here if you need us."

Elizabeth sighed and shut her eyes. Emily sat next to her, stroking her hair until her breathing slowed, and then a little longer.

* * *

><p>The piece <em>was<em> Bach, but Emily wasn't so versed in classical music that she could identify it beyond that. She lingered in the living room entrance and watched him play on an old but well-restored upright piano. Sergio lay in a feline puddle on the top, clearly blissed out. He used to loll around on top of her stereo speakers, she remembered.

Reid's hands were smooth and graceful as they worked their way up and down the keyboard. The golden lamplight caught the grey threads in his hair and cast shadows in his face, and the music swelled to fill the room.

He liked the precision, he'd told her, the structure, the patterns, the measured movement of note to note. Like math. She'd assumed he would play with technical perfection but very little expression.

Instead, there was leashed emotion in the music, moving under the notes like the rise of the ocean.

She should have known. This was Spencer Reid, who needed more filters and structure to handle emotion than most people. Music, like math or statistics, created frameworks for his feelings, safe boundaries where he could let them out of their cage. Then he could pick them up and study them, parse them into categories, work out where to lay them to rest in his heart.

The piece moved serenely to its end. He rested his fingers on the keys.

"What was that?"

His shoulders jerked, and the piano made a startled, discordant noise that made Sergio twitch awake. "Emily?" he asked, twisting around on the piano bench.

"Sorry," she said. "I thought you knew I was there."

He shook his head. "I - No. I didn't." He rubbed a hand over his hair. "I thought you'd gone to bed." He frowned at her. "Was I keeping you awake? The music?"

"No! Not at all. Actually, it helped Elizabeth get to sleep."

"Oh. Good."

Silence fell between, awkward as a junior-high date. She licked her lower lip and a scab twinged, the spot where Doyle had kissed her hard enough to break the skin. He was gone, she reminded herself.

Reid got to his feet and tugged the crumpled blanket off the armchair next to the piano. "Um, sit, please."

She padded across the room and took the chair. Her knee protested. She tried to suppress the wince.

But of course he noticed. "Are you sore? I have ibuprofen."

"I took some." The soreness hadn't really set in. Tomorrow it would be here with a vengeance, but the pills were holding it off for the moment.

He sat down on the piano bench and glanced at her, brows drawn together, and looked away again.

She answered the unspoken question. "It's not the music and it's not because I'm sore." She grimaced. "My head is too full to let me sleep."

He nodded. He probably understood. Hell, it was probably why he was playing instead of crashing out himself.

From the top of the piano, Sergio gave her a slit-eyed look. Emily didn't know if it was because the cat remembered her or because he was feeling too lazy that he hadn't run away and hid. He'd bolted when they'd first arrived, much to Elizabeth's disappointment.

She rested her hand, palm up, on the edge of the piano's top.

He got slowly to his feet, prowled the length of the piano and sniffed at her fingers. Cautiously, he put his nose into her palm. She scratched under his chin, the way he liked, and he blinked, slowly and happily.

After a moment, he pulled away and went back, knocking a piece of paper off as he went. It fluttered toward the floor, and Reid's hand flashed out to snatch it from the air.

"What is that?" Emily asked. She'd thought it was just scrap until he'd grabbed for it like that.

He looked down at it, smoothing out the crinkles from his grip. He gave her one quiet, considering look, and then without saying anything, he held it out to her.

She took it, unfolded it, and all the breath left her body.

It was a printed scan of a handwritten letter, and though she knew exactly what it said the moment she saw the handwriting, her eyes jumped from phrase to phrase anyway.

_I know you're excited about college. But hold off on choosing your major until you're sixteen. Eighteen's better, but at least sixteen. I know you want to follow in your dad's footsteps and have a doctorate before legal adulthood, but galloping through school never made him happy. Ask him; he'll tell you. Don't rush. You have a lot of years to figure out what you want to do with those brilliant brains of yours._

_Teach your dad to cuddle. He has aptitude, but not much experience._

_I know that you feel unattractive and awkward. Everyone feels like that. Supermodels feel like that. Believe me when I say: you do not need tits or hair to be feminine and beautiful. Your hair will grow, and someday the Boob Fairy will visit and you'll spend the rest of your life saying, "My eyes are up here." Just be patient._

_You've already lost so much because of Ian Doyle, and you're not going to lose any more._

_Your body is your own. Your choices are your own. Don't ever let anybody pressure you or sweet-talk you into doing or being what they want instead of what you want. You'll make choices that you regret, but at least you can own them._

_You'll be angry, and you'll be sad, and you'll hate me for awhile, and I can't do anything about that. But please understand that I made this choice because I love you, my brave girl, I love you more than you can ever know, and one day you'll be able to forgive me for that._

It was a goodbye letter, an attempt to cram a lifetime of mothering into one sheet of paper. She'd written it almost twenty-four hours ago, on the train as Elizabeth snored against her shoulder.

She let it rest in her lap. Her fingers were shaking. "How did you get this?"

"Elizabeth told me you asked about the money you gave her on the train, and when she admitted she'd lost it, you said it didn't matter." He eyed her. "It was strange for you to be worrying about money at a time like that."

"Hey, bub, you're on welfare for twenty-six months, you always worry about money." But the retort popped out on automatic, with no force behind it.

"Even more reason why it was odd that you told her it didn't matter. So that told me it wasn't the money itself, but something you included with it. Cassavetes took it from her at Union Station. I took a gamble that he was still carrying it when Aiden shot him, and called the local precinct. They had it in evidence."

"You going to tell her?"

"It's your letter. Or hers. Depending on how you look at it."

"Don't," she said, hearing how her own voice shook. "Please."

"All right."

She crumpled it in her hands and then looked at the ball of paper blankly. Her hands were still trembling.

He plucked it from her lap and dropped it in the trash can. "I didn't need to read it to know what you planned to do," he said.

Her eyes had followed the paper in to the trash can. She wanted to burn it. She lifted her eyes. "You figured it out when she told you how I turned around in Chicago, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"Everyone else?"

He nodded again.

"Did Elizabeth know?"

He hesitated. "Not consciously, I don't think."

She let out her breath, remembering Elizabeth's clinginess. There was a lot that went on with her unconsciously.

He got up and paced across the room, then turned on his heel to face her. "I thought you were dead." The words burst out of him like birds released from a cage. "I went in that room and I saw you and I thought I was going to have to tell our daughter that I was too late."

"You weren't," she said. "You were right on time. Right when I needed you."

"You would have taken her," he said. "You would have disappeared."

"Yes."

"Then, when she talked you out of that, you would have gone after Doyle on your own. Like you thought about doing before."

"Yes."

"And when that went south, you would have manipulated Doyle into killing you."

"Yes."

"Emily, did you ever _once_ think that you might survive?"

She leaned forward. "He had me for six hours, Reid. Why am I still alive?"

It stopped him midstream. She saw his mouth open and close.

"He had a gun to my head at one point. He was taunting me. Make me kill you, he said. And I could've done it. You figured out all the rest of it, now figure this out. Why didn't I?"

"Conyers would've told him," Reid said slowly, "that he could get Elizabeth. From Quantico. Did he tell you?"

"He did. He loved telling me everything he was going to do to her." She managed a smile. "Except I realized you'd never let that happen. That one way or another, you'd destroy anybody who tried to touch our girl. So I knew she was safe. I didn't have to die to protect her. And that you were coming. You and the whole team, and all I had to do was keep myself alive until then."

He said, "You needed a gun to your head to trust me?"

"Oh for fuck's sake." She surged to her feet and stood facing him. "You said it yourself, back when you first met her. We could have bolted right then, and we didn't. For the past eighteen months, our lives have been in your hands."

"You bolted two days ago."

"I know. I panicked, I admit it. But I turned around, because I knew you would take care of Elizabeth. The most precious thing in the world to me, I trusted to you."

"But you still intended to confront Doyle," he said. "On your own."

Was there any other way it could have ended? Emily thought not, but she also knew that argument wouldn't cut any ice with him right now. "Yes."

"You almost died. He would've killed you." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Don't you understand? _You're_ precious to me. I would have been lost without you, Emily. Broken and floundering and trying to hold it all together for Elizabeth."

"I'm here," she said. "It took me awhile, and yes, fine, a gun to my head, but I'm here."

"Now that you are," he said, "what are you going to do?"

In the emails, he'd talked about a future with her in it, not just Elizabeth. But she had never referred to the future, with or without him, and she knew it was preying on his mind by the way he asked the question.

"You were right earlier," she admitted in a low voice. "I never did think I would survive to come back home. But I did and the only thing I know for sure right now is that I want you. Because I've spent too damn long living without the man I love and I'm not doing it anymore."

He flushed. He hadn't expected that blunt, raw admission. He'd expected her to be safe about it.

Screw it. She was done being safe; she was done hiding.

"I want you too." He took a deep breath. "But Emily, I can't be someone you love like a picture in your wallet. Someone you can put away. I need to be your partner, and I need you to be mine. If I - if _we_ can't have that, I don't want anything else."

Apparently she wasn't the only one feeling reckless tonight.

"Neither do I. Spencer, I don't want a picture in my wallet. I want the real thing. Not in front of me, not behind me. Next to me."

He swallowed, took a breath, swallowed again. She felt her eyes prickle, her throat close up, and wondered if he was on the verge of tears, too.

He took a step forward, close enough to touch her cheek. His fingertips trailed feather-light along her skin, carefully avoiding the bruise Cassavetes had left on her jaw. He dropped his hand, then took hers, weaving his fingers through hers as she'd done to him earlier, at Quantico.

"It would seem we want exactly the same thing then."

Her breath left her lungs in a whoosh. "I know it's not going to be easy."

"For either of us."

She'd probably screw it up at least a few times. So would he. They'd both been alone a very long time, and making space for someone to fit into your life, even someone you loved, was like chipping a road out of granite. But . . . "You're worth the effort, Spencer Reid."

He leaned forward and set his lips to hers. The scab pulled as she kissed him back, but she didn't care, because it was him.

They stood holding each other, and he whispered in her ear, "So are you."


	25. Epilogue

The baby in Emily's arms stared up at the dead, rotting thing that leaned over her. She squealed happily and leaned toward it.

Reid, zombified for the Halloween party, lifted Penelope's daughter out of Emily's arms. "Hello, sweetheart. What excellent focusing that is! And your memory is impressive, yes it is." She gurgled and clutched his grey, torn shirt. "Are you demonstrating improved fine motor control and hand-eye coordination? Yes, yes, you are!"

A woman in a Snow White costume paused on her way past, expression incredulous. She was a new neighbor and had never really seen Reid at his quirkiest. She turned to Emily. "Is - is that supposed to be baby talk?"

"She seems to like it," Emily said. "Besides, she's five months old. He could say anything to her and it wouldn't matter."

"Really?"

"Absolutely," Reid said, bouncing Andrea in his arms. "She's reacting with pleasure to the tone of my voice and my attention focused on her. Her vocabulary is insufficiently advanced to understand the sense of my words." He booped Andrea's nose. "Is it? _Is_ it? No, absolutely it's not."

The neighbor shook her head a little and continued toward the dining room. She crossed paths with Elizabeth, coming the other way.

Dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein, Emily's daughter sported painted-on scars, a flowing white dress made out of two sheets, and wildly teased hair with a bold silver streak painted in. She squeaked with joy. "Baby! Hi, Andrea!" She traded raspberries with the baby and then asked, "Aunt J.J, have you seen Cliff?"

"Not for awhile," J.J. said. Her daughter had been avoiding her, claiming it was just _too humiliating_ to have your mom dressed like somebody's grandma. Reid had attempted to explain the sociocultural significance of Rosie the Riveter to her, without success.

"I saw her zip by," Emily offered. "Your evil twin's in the kitchen."

"Actually, Mom, we decided that she's my parallel self from an alternate time stream."

Emily caught her hand, pulled her close, and gave her forehead a smacking kiss. "I am _so_ proud of you sometimes."

She wiggled away. "Mo-om! My makeup!" She wove her way through the people, toward the kitchen.

Reid sat down next to Emily, shifting Andrea to his other side when she made a grab for Emily's golden hoop earring. He looked around. "Do you think everyone's enjoying themselves?"

"We're having a great time," Penelope assured him. In her medieval bar-wench costume, she actually looked the most normal out of the whole company. Emily coudn't decide whether that said something about everyone else's costumes or Penelope's usual taste in clothes.

"I know it's a little unorthodox to have a family Halloween party."

"Please," Penelope said. "We're so unorthodox that we've spun off and created our own sect."

"Plus, we get the not-to-be-missed opportunity to see Hotch dressed up as Dracula," J.J. put in.

"There is that," Emily agreed.

Besides the BAU members and their families, they had a good mix of people. A few neighbor families, some of Elizabeth's tae kwon do friends, even a few instructors Reid knew from Georgetown, where he was teaching a regular graduate-level class now.

After her resurrection, Hotch had quietly invited her back to the team, promising that he would pull whatever strings needed to be pulled to make it work. She and Reid had talked about it, long and seriously. At the end of it all, they'd decided together that Emily would take the offer, but that Reid would leave the team when she and Elizabeth moved back to D.C.

She hadn't been thrilled when he'd first told her his idea. But he was acutely aware of how fast time was passing. In just over four years, Elizabeth would be eighteen and probably ready to leave the nest. He didn't want to give up any more of that time than he actually had to.

It wasn't as if he'd left completely. He remained an FBI employee, got his fair share of consults, even accompanied the team on cases that were in the D.C. area or conferenced in remotely when they needed his input. But after a lifetime that had centered around the BAU, he was very firmly placing it second.

For her part, Emily finally understood how Hotch felt, leaving his kids behind all the time. She missed Elizabeth - and Reid - like crazy on their out-of-town cases. But after fourteen years of doing jobs that were nothing more than a paycheck, she also knew the difference between that and doing something you were born to do, and she wanted Elizabeth to see the difference, too.

Andrea started to grizzle and chew on her fist. "Uh-oh, my cue," Penelope said, and Reid handed her over. "Yes, I hear you, it's dinner time," she cooed, getting to her feet.

"You can use Elizabeth's bedroom," Emily offered.

"Thanks, sweetie. Hear that, jellybean? Only the finest dining ambience for you."

Will, dressed as a WWII soldier, came over at that point and claimed J.J. Emily wiggled her brows as they went off together. Will usually got a little snuggly and gropey after a couple of beers. J.J. just grinned back at her and slipped one arm around his waist.

It left Emily and Reid alone on the couch for a moment, briefly overlooked in the general buzz of the party. Emily pulled up her legs and curled them under her, leaning her shoulder into Reid's side. "Hey," she murmured.

He slid his arm around her shoulders. "Hey."

"Having fun?"

"Mmmhm."

"Glad I suggested it?"

"Mhm." He kissed her cheek, soft and light. "Did I mention that I like your costume?"

She looked at him through her lashes. Having caught him checking out her ass in the pirate-queen pants several times while they were getting set up for the party, she was already aware of his appreciation. "Nope."

"Mmmm." He kissed her again, on the lips, and his fingers trailed over her knee. "I like your costume."

"Oh, my god, you guys. Control yourselves." Elizabeth plopped down on Reid's other side.

"How do you think you got here, kid?" Emily asked her.

"Contrary to all biological possibility, I firmly avow that it was a stork." She turned to Reid. "Dad, didn't Aiden say he was coming?"

"Yes, but later, honey. Marissa's on the afternoon shift, and with Halloween, she might have to clock overtime."

She made a face. "He's going to miss it completely."

"It's just one party, kiddo," Emily said. "And you'll see him soon enough."

"I know," she sighed. "I just - " She broke off with a tiny squeak, and Emily looked up. Sure enough, Jack Hotchner had come up to the couch.

"Hey," he said. "I wanted to say goodbye and thanks for inviting me."

Emily laughed up at him. "You mean a twenty-year-old college student has better things to do on Halloween night than party with his parents' friends?"

"Crazy, right?"

"Thanks for coming, Jack," Reid said.

"I had fun. And the food was great." He grinned down at Elizabeth. "That was you, right?"

"The dips and things," she mumbled, wide-eyed.

"Well, I stuffed myself." When she didn't respond, tongue-tied, he nodded. "Okay. Bye." He waved on his way out the front door.

"Bye," Elizabeth called after him.

Reid opened his mouth, and Emily elbowed him.

If Elizabeth had to have her developmentally appropriate hopeless crush on a fellow Georgetown student, Jack Hotchner was probably the best candidate she could have picked. Emily had been a little worried before Elizabeth had started her freshman year. In addition to her height and her mind, Elizabeth had started to grow into a kind of solemn beauty, especially as her hair grew out and fell in waves around her face. With the right clothes, she could easily pass for sixteen, and it wasn't unheard of for college boys to take advantage of innocence offered.

But Jack, his father's son down to the bone, would cut off his own fingers before he laid a single one of them on an underage girl, even one who wasn't tied to him in as many ways as Elizabeth was.

Cliff came by and pulled Elizabeth away to giggle and whisper together. Probably about Jack. Emily got to her feet and went to check the status of the food. When she came back, Reid was deep in arm-flailing conversation with one of his fellow Georgetown instructors, something about the mathematics of atomic fusion for all Emily knew. She gave him a hug from behind, but left them to it and circulated the party, chatting with the people in her new life.

Things had begun to wind down a few hours later. The party had dwindled to mostly the BAU people. Their kids had congregated in Elizabeth's room to keep an eye on the sleeping baby and talk about their own affairs. The adults were sitting around in the living telling stories that wound up being mostly shorthand because they'd known each other so long. The front door opened again.

"Hey!" Reid said.

Emily called out toward the stairs, "Libs! Aiden and Marissa are here!"

Elizabeth came rushing down the stairs, followed by Cliff and the two oldest Hotchner girls. "Aiden! I thought you weren't coming."

"No way." He hugged her, then released her so she could pounce on Marissa. "I know we're late, but we couldn't completely miss the party." He shot Marissa a look. "Especially after what happened."

Emily straightened up. Reid started to smile. Elizabeth's eyes began to sparkle.

"Um," Marissa said, a flush creeping up over her cheeks. "Aiden picked me up at work, and on the way over, he, uh, he - " She seemed to run out of suitable words and just held up her left hand. Something glinted at the base of the ring finger.

Elizabeth let out a shriek that should have broken glasses. "You did it! You did it!" She hugged Aiden and Marissa both. "He's had that thing for two months," she told Marissa. "I've been telling him to ask you already. I'm so happy for you!"

She had to let go of them in order to allow everyone else their share of hugs and congratulations. "This deserves something special," Emily declared, getting to her feet. "We've got a bottle of wine that might qualify." She slipped away, into the kitchen.

She had found the wine, and an extra bottle of sparkling apple juice for the under-21s, and was rooting around looking for the corkscrew when a footstep brought her head up.

"Hey," Aiden said. "Need help?"

"Uh - sure. You could get the wineglasses down." She gestured vaguely at a tall cabinet.

They had an odd, standoffish relationship. She saw him often, because he was close to both Elizabeth and Reid, but they seemed to have stalled out at the "New haircut? It's nice," and "Crazy weather, right?" level. It hurt sometimes, remembering what he'd been to her as a little boy. Sometimes she looked at him and saw Declan, a kid who loved trucks and running games and general mayhem and who'd reminded her that she had the capacity to love in the midst of darkness and lies.

Sometimes she looked at him and saw Ian, a man who'd lied, stolen, cheated, and killed. A man who'd somehow loved her.

More often lately, she saw Aiden, a young man devoted to justice, more than occasionally overworked, but good and kind and willing to fight the darkness that he would have inherited in a different life, and she told herself that was enough. Maybe twenty-two years was too long a separation to expect a child's love to last.

He lined up the wineglasses on the counter. "What do you think? Is this enough?"

She counted. "Maybe a couple more," she said.

He got two more down, but didn't make any move to start carrying them to the other room. That clinched it. "So," she said. "What did you want to ask me?"

He shot her a sidelong glance, the way he used to as a little boy when she knew exactly what he was thinking or hiding without him saying a word. "Who says I wanted to ask you anything?"

She pointed at her chest. "Profiler," she said.

He laughed in a soft huff of air. "Right." He looked down at the wineglasses, twisted one stem between his fingers so the glass base swiveled on the tile counter. "I don't have . . . " He trailed off, swallowed. "Not exactly a question."

She waited.

He glared fiercely at the innocent wineglasses. "I miss him," he announced.

It hit her like a punch. She took a breath and let it out. "Your father," she said evenly.

"Yes." There was something defiant in his voice.

"It's only been seven months since he died, Aiden. It's not surprising that you feel that way."

"I hadn't seen him in over twenty years."

"But you still knew he was out there. Somewhere. That you might see him again. Now that possibility's been taken away."

He sighed and wandered toward the table, sinking down into one of the chairs. "You know the funny thing? I miss him more now. Right now."

"What, here?" _With me?_

"No. Since I bought that ring. Worse than when he first died. That's weird, right?"

"That you're thinking about your father, when you're contemplating a major, life-changing event? No, I don't think that's weird."

He shot her a doubtful look.

"Feelings don't have to make sense, Aiden." She watched him warily, wondering why he'd come to her with this.

"He'd've hated her," Aiden said. "That she was a cop. That I was FBI." He chewed his lip. With a jolt, Emily recognized one of her own mannerisms, from the Lauren days. She'd never realized that he'd picked it up.

"Do you feel guilty about the different direction you've chosen for your life? Different than what he had planned for you?"

"No," he said immediately, firmly. "I just know how he would have felt."

"Nobody can really predict how someone else will react." She sounded like a therapist. Was that what he wanted?

No.

He wanted somebody who'd known Ian the way he had, the man who was capable of love at the same time that he was capable of vicious murder. And if that person was the woman who'd used, betrayed, and ultimately killed his father . . . well, that was what he had to work with.

She set the wine bottle and the corkscrew down and sat next to him. "Declan."

He jumped at the old name.

"Your dad loved you more than anything. Anything. Trust me; I know. And when you love your kid like that, the most important thing is their happiness."

"But Lauren, he wouldn't've called this happy."

"Do you?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

"Okay, then," she said softly. "Honey, if he were alive, yes, it would be more complicated. But he's not. And you have the chance to believe that he could look past the differences in your lives and see that you, his son, are happy, and it would be enough for him."

He studied her face. Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. "Maybe it would've."

"You never know," she said.

He smiled fractionally.

She got to her feet and reached for the wine bottle again, but he put out a hand. "Emily? Do you ever regret what you did?"

She stared down at him, wondering if he'd been thinking about this for the past seven months.

He shifted. "I mean, because of what he did, after? The people he killed were your friends. And what you lost . . . Do you ever wish you'd done things differently?"

She let out her breath. "Aiden. There are so many things in this life I wish I'd done differently. But what I did, getting you out of that world? Keeping you safe? _Mon poulet_, I would do that again and again."

When he looked up, his eyes were the same ones that had looked at her, wide and trusting, as she painted him with blood and arranged him in a death tableau. Impulsively, she reached out, brushed his hair back, and kissed his forehead. He leaned into her touch slightly, and she thought that, to love, twenty-two years was really no time at all.

"C'mon," she said. "We're missing the party."

FINIS

(A/N): Soonish turned into laterish. After several weeks of this hibernating half-written on my hard drive, I've finally finished. Yowza.

Thank you to all my dear readers, particularly everyone who reviewed and favorited and story-alerted. Special thanks to SpemilyFan, who served as my French-language consultant several months ago and never got properly thanked in that chapter. I really enjoyed writing this, particularly the challenge of writing a child OC who narrates much of the action. I don't know what's next, but it won't be for awhile. Summer is awfully busy for me.

I am tossing around the idea of a sequel to War Crimes (points if you noticed the textual reference!) If you'd be interested in that, let me know!


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